Thanatos
by kiku65
Summary: According to Sigmund Freud, humans have a death drive, which is commonly called 'Thanatos'. This postulated death drive allegedly compels humans to engage in risky and self-destructive acts that could lead to their own death. Shep whump.
1. Prologue: In Adversity

Disclaimer: Not mine

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summery: If you go down to the woods today, you're sure of an ambush and a kidnapping. No shipping of any orientation, I am not a harbour for romance on this site. Those who know me know the Wraith are going to show up in this _somewhere_, but Sheppard's the main character and I have turned all my evilness on him in this one. Pay heed to the warnings.

Spoilers: Season four up to _This Mortal Coil_.

WARNING: Contains torture, strong language, psychological trauma, graphic imagery, extreme violence, lots of blood, and heavy duty angst. But on the plus side, no puppies get kicked... maybe.

* * *

_According to Sigmund Freud, humans have a life instinct - which he named 'Eros' - and a death drive, which is commonly called 'Thanatos'. This postulated death drive allegedly compels humans to engage in risky and self-destructive acts that could lead to their own death. Behaviors such as thrill seeking, aggression, and risk taking are viewed as actions which stem from this Thanatos instinct._

-Wikipedia article 'Death Drive'

o.O.o

_Seven weeks after..._

No sane person journeyed through the desert willingly. It was a fact that Nat had had many an occasion to bitterly reflect upon in the course of their day-long trek, especially on the key point of _willingness_. Personally he would much rather be on his homestead, listening to his wife complain about his farming skills, the poor quality of the animals, the lack of money and a hundred and one other things the woman decided was his fault, from poor prices to bad weather.

Not that it mattered now. The soldiers had gutted her when they ransacked the place; he and a score of others had been rounded up, chained together, and marched gods-knew-how-long to this particular desiccated spot to be staked out in the winter sun. He could see them now, looking along the line; a handful of tired men, a dozen or so equally exhausted women, a few teenagers including one blond girl who was sobbing into her ragged skirt as she sat slumped beside her mother, the lady too caught up in her own fate to be much of a comfort.

Because they were going to die. All of them.

"Nat." It was Elli, a heavyset woman who had been married to a good friend of his. The good friend in question had collapsed early on in the trek to fall victim to the soldiers' swords. "Nat, is the plan still on?"

He smiled bitterly. _The plan_, as she called it, was merely a vague idea involving a pocket-knife he had stolen from one of the guards and the picket that bound their communal chain into the rock-hard earth. It was at least conceivably possible that they could extract the stake, hell, maybe even make it out of the kill-zone before the hunters started arriving, but they had no water, no food and no way of getting either. They had been dead the moment they set foot on the dust of the wastelands, and everyone knew it.

But dehydration was still better than the other option. He nodded wearily and drew the knife, palming the sharp metal before crawling on his belly towards the picket. A few looked up to watch him dully, but most were too tired to care what some old coot of a farmer did with his last hours. There were no guards posted, no need for them. No-one looked as he started scratching away at the hard soil.

One, a tousle-haired fellow with stingflies crawling around his mouth, waved a lazy hand over and called out in a heavy northern accent. "Watcha botherin' wit dat fer? Save yer energy, old'un, we're not shiftin' anytime soon."

"'Least I got something more productive to do than sit around eating bugs," Nat replied levelly. The man swore at him and turned away, leaving him to continue. The topsoil was all gone now, the underlay hard but crumbly where the picket had torn at it. His hopes rose with each grate under the knife blade.

Elli watched him moon-eyed, resting on substantial thighs that had gotten considerably thinner over the course of the journey. As he progressed others started to gather too, chains clinking in the cool evening air. A boy started to cry out encouragement.

"Yeah that's it grandpa, you give it a good hit."

Nat grinned at him, showing a worn but complete set of dentures. A few others joined in, even the bug-mouthed fellow, voices thin as they floated up to the purpling sky.

"You almost got it now!" "Just another good socking!" "Chip at the base!"

He hacked away faster, encouraged by the dark already creeping in from the east. If they were still here when the sun had set, it would matter a good dried-up turd whether the picket was still there or not. You couldn't outrun skyships.

It was a clever idea though, he had to admit even when the knife slipped and pricked a sting-sized hole in his hand, and the dust started to settle in the wound to make it itch. The perfect compromise was when both parties gathered the most benefits with the least amount of effort.

The lords got what they wanted. The Wraith never touched them and any that made trouble could be made to conveniently disappear.

The Wraith got what they wanted. Food was served up to them practically on a silver platter, albeit a very dirty and dusty one. It was something he was trying not to think about, with varying degrees of success as the night drew closer.

The sun had sunk to a throbbing red dome over the west when the post finally yanked free. A few people cheered. The skinny lad who'd been the first to care took the dirt-encrusted post with a wink, before throwing it with relish into one of the scrubby thorn bushes.

Nat slapped his hands together cheerfully. "Right, it's still a few hours to sunset, so we'd better get go–"

A distant whine stopped the words in his throat. He looked to the west dumbly, a woman whimpering behind him as he saw the three specks floating in the red, like spots from staring at the sun too long.

_It's not fair. _

The Wraith weren't supposed to come until nightfall!

A deathly hush had fallen, broken only by a soft sobbing from one of the younger teenagers. The skinny boy was just staring and blinking, as though waiting for a whupping after breaking his mother's favourite plate. Nat licked dry lips.

"Everyone get together," he said, reaching out to draw Elli closer. They had nowhere to run to, nothing to defend themselves with, and no chance of rescue. The Wraith had come early and they were going to _die_, plain and flat. Might as well die together.

The whine rose until it rattled his teeth, the ships flying low. Most folk were crying now, huddled in a group like bucks away from hunting 'pards, but Nat was looking up – he'd always looked his enemies in the eye since he'd stood up to Big Madder at the tender age of eight – and he noticed something strange.

All right Wraith were monsters, evil life-sucking fiends from legend... but surely they could fly in a straight line?

One certainly wasn't. In fact, as Nat lay in the dust and hugged Elli (_he should've married the damn woman years ago; it was only 'cause Wekefhad had that herd of mulch-beasts that he'd not tried to compete_) as though he never planned to stop he saw that it was trailing smoke, or at least something vaguely black and cloudy, keeping ahead of the other two only by a whisker. The boom of one of the hunters firing at the crippled ship made several people scream.

It stuttered in midair, stalled, then swung sideways.

The first of the two pursuers was taken completely off guard, slamming into its prey with enough force to smash part of the tailfins off. It spiralled dizzily before dipping and crashing, the resulting fireball sending a brief blaze of warmth over the cowering humans. The second ship was quicker off the mark and flew straight past the crippled one without hurt, but most unfortunately seemed to have neglected to disable the other's weapons...

A second explosion added a new sun to the sky, the crippled ship passing through it before whistling over their head close enough for Nat to smell the stink of it. It reminded him unpleasantly of the farm after the soldiers had fired it, a mix of burning meat and metal that stung the nostrils.

The crash was more controlled, but it still bounced, skidded ten feet, then came to rest half-facing them, fires crackling enough to shroud it in smoke. After a brief pause in which everyone realised they had not been culled or – as Nat was starting to suspect – were having a very bizarre dream. They were indeed alive, increasingly dirty and there was an arrow-head shaped Wraith ship lying in the dirt like a punctuation mark in the distance.

In the end it was Elli, not Nat, who persuaded them to have a look at it. It would probably have supplies, she reasoned, and even if it didn't whoever had flown it might have some. Of course since it was a _Wraith_ ship no-one seemed overly keen to risk asking the pilot for any favours, but as one of the men pointed out whoever he (or she) was they were probably hurt, maybe dead, and in any case had merited being shot at by two other ships. Enemies of enemies were friends, and all that. Even the white flash that Nat wasn't even sure he'd seen couldn't put them off.

It all turned out to the moot anyway, since when they finally got to the ship – hitching up the communal chain as a housewife might have her skirt, – the pilot was gone. This understandably sparked a few nervous minutes while everyone peered behind thorn bushes and jumped at shadows, but when Nat found crooked tracks heading north _away_ from the crash site everyone stopped with sighs of relief. It was almost totally dark now, the picket-area was more than an hour's hobble away, and the ship was still burning enough to provide heat and light. No-one really wanted to abandon it. Wraith or no Wraith.

The bug-mouthed man found a shard of something that was either brown metal or very hard bone and started niggling away at his shackles with a professionalism Nat would have found disturbing at any other time in his life. As it was he supposed a trained pick-lock was a boon to them all, much more so than one old codger of a farmer.

Elli settled beside him, face turned red in the fire as bug-mouth freed himself and started on his neighbour. "Looks like we might live."

"Looks like," he agreed, although he knew they weren't out of the desert yet. No supplies, no water or weapons. The thorn bushes might provide moisture if the leaves were chewed and unchained people travelled faster than those hobbled but he knew the odds were still stacked against them.

But hell, the odds had been a whole lot worse a couple of hours ago.

Elli broke the silence again. "Wonder who the pilot was," a nod towards the glowing cinders of the ship. Everyone had agreed, in the way nervous people trying to convince themselves of an illusion of safety agree, that whoever the pilot had been they were most likely dead or too badly hurt to return by now, even if they wanted to. The tracks – both sets, although he'd neglected to mention that to the others – had shown dark spots of liquid around them, with drag marks in the dust made as if in a great hurry. Nat shrugged, looking into the dieing embers.

"Don't matter," he said, glancing up at a blue-purple sky full of stars. "Whoever they are, they're on their own now."

o.O.o

_One day before..._

Curses existed, John was absolutely certain of that, and it was looking increasingly likely that he'd had one put on him. There were a fair number of contenders for the curse-layer – starting with the Genii and working up chronologically – but right now he was going to bet on Wallace.

He'd heard somewhere that a dead man's curse was somehow more potent than one from a living person. It wasn't really comforting, something he could reflect on at length while lying in this muddy, wet, smelly ditch filled with dirty brown water topped with some sort of green scum. And the day had been going so well.

A small dirty hand tugged his flak jacket. "Can we get up now mister?"

He turned his head ever so slightly and replied in a soft whisper. "Not yet. Wait."

The hand withdrew, and he pressed himself back down into the mud. Oh yeah, really well. For once the villagers had been friendly, no weird rituals or odd customs and warily pleasant towards strangers. According the Teyla they were primarily merchants, acting as a trading post to several other worlds. Hence the visit. Trading posts picked up information with their goods, and information was a valuable resource now the Athosians were missing.

Of course it hadn't taken long for things to go pear shaped.

A pair of feet, booted in leather and kicking up stones that landed almost at the tip of his nose, walked past them. The boy – a red-haired youngster who'd glued himself to John's elbow from the word go – whimpered softly, but made no other sound. The poor kid was probably in too much shock to squeak.

"_Colonel Sheppard? Are you there?_"

He bit back a word that he really didn't want the boy beside him to learn just yet before edging his com up to his mouth. "_Not_ the best of times, Radek."

The answer was swift and definitely _not_ the little Czech. _"Colonel, we have made it to the Stargate with the remaining villagers. Ronon is delaying them but there are too many to hold for long."_

His heart lifted. Teyla was alive and she was at the gate, and Ronon was with her. That meant the odds were to their favour. "Get through _now_, I'm just coming. Tell Ronon to fall back to the gate." He released the com and turned to the kid, smiling to ease the other's fear. Tentatively, the boy smiled back.

"Are we going back to my father now?" he asked.

John's stomach tightened. He'd seen the kid's father, right before one of the strange raiders with their stranger weapons –guns almost like their own P90's, but with needles instead of bullets – had spilt the mans guts to the ground with what looked almost like a bayonet. If John had anything to do with it the kid wouldn't be seeing his father again anytime soon.

"Sure," he said anyway. Lying was easy once you got the knack. "But first we have to get to the others. As soon as I say _now_ you have to run as fast as you can to the Ring. Don't slow down and don't look back. You think you can do that?"

Blue eyes bobbed in a nod. Damn, it had to be blue. Even now, almost a year after Carson's life had been snuffed out by a cloud of orange-red fire, blue eyes made him think of the gentle Scottish doctor. Just another life to mourn, another brick in the wall.

"Okay, kid... _now_."

The boy jumped up as soon as he spoke, taking off like a startled deer through the woods. He must have run races since toddlerhood, or he was even more piss-scared than John was, because it was all the soldier could do to keep up with him. Branches slapped against his face hard enough to bruise as he barrelled after the sprinting child, ignoring the low-lying brambles that were tearing at his thighs.

His somewhat belated luck held, because there was no sign of the raiders all through the forest until he heard the steady stutter of a P90 being fired in rapid succession, coupled with the freaky _whizz-whizz _of the raider's needle weapons and the lower toned whistle of Ronon's pulse gun. He slowed, but the boy was either too scared to stop or just mindlessly obedient.

"Kid! _Wait_!"

Not a flicker of attention as the boy dived into the battle, but then that wasn't surprising. The noise had probably drowned his voice out. John swore before plunging after him.

The clearing around the active 'gate was a cauldron of battle, ringed in a half-circle with raiders in leather armour sewn with metal rings and holding their needle-guns with dangerous professionalism. Sheltering behind a collapsed stone wall of distinctly Ancient appearance was Ronon and Teyla, or at least it seemed so by the shape of the hands occasionally popping up to let off another round of fire. It looked like Radek had already gone through the 'gate, which John reflected – in between a certainty he was about to die and mindless terror for the fleeing boy – was probably a good thing; the scientist had only been with them to check the ruins in McKay's absence and really didn't deserve to share in his team's infamous luck.

All thoughts were driven out of his head as he saw the child run blindly onwards, oversized clothing flapping behind him in a surreal parody of a bird's wings. The kid couldn't be more than eight, maybe nine, and he was about to get his head blown off. Already some of the raiders along the edge had turned and were shouting, alerting their fellows. The kid spotted them and froze in terror.

Instantly John saw what he had to do, and there was no pause between the thought and the deed.

"_Kid_!" he bellowed, swinging the P90 up. "_Run_!"

The boy took off like a jackrabbit as the raiders spun towards the source of his voice, one falling with half his head blown away before John dove behind the cover of a tree. He shot and shouted and made as much noise as was humanely possible, hoping to draw attention from the kid to himself.

"_Sheppard?_" Ronon. The big man actually sounded worried. "_Sheppard? We can't hold much more, they've got–_"

An explosion punctuated his words for him, sending up a mushroom cloud of leaves visible even from John's position in the trees. With a sinking feeling he saw the raiders blocking his way and realised he wasn't going to make it.

"Fall back through the gate. Shut it down."

Ronon's reply was predictably short and brusque. So was John's answer.

"_Do it!_"

He never saw their last desperate attempt to reach him, nor their retreat, nor the boy reach them, or the gate wink out, because it was at that point that the butt of someone's gun smashed on top of his head and the world was drowned in pain.


	2. Breaking and Being Broken: Chapter 1

Still there? Really? Good-O. The upcoming chapters are kinda, long, but don't let that put you off. Feedback is chocolate - and it _does_ make me update faster. Ignore the rumours about that please :)

* * *

_Who knew what sane men were capable of?_

-Night Watch

* * *

John opened his eyes and saw nothing.

Space was infinite. The blackness was unending; there were no stars. No moon, not even the midnight blue of overcast clouds. He pressed his palm down and _felt_ – coldness, hardness, something slimy, something brittle, something damp – but there was no floor. He could feel gravity holding him down, but he couldn't see the thing that generated it.

_I'm dreaming_, he thought muzzily, until cold terror cut through the giddiness. _No, I'm blind. _

_Blind. _

And he couldn't remember why he was here.

o.O.o

When he woke again his sight was returning but his memory was not. He looked down to the world below him.

The floor was grey stone. There was straw on it, pressed into the filth underneath by years of heavy bodies. He stared at the grit embedded in it like tiny jewels, further up along a sweating wall set with a tiny window. The bars were rusted and pitted with a pox of flaking holes, as were the rings in the walls and the bars holding the wood of the heavy door together. The planks were swollen and rotten, like corpses in damp heat.

The air in here was damp all right, but it was cold. It cut through his shirt (_and where had his tac vest disappeared to?_), making him shiver and curl up on himself, sheltering the warmth in his abdomen with his knees as a phoenix egg.

The light outside was purple. He was too tired to care.

o.O.o

Recollection came back fragmented, like a shattered mirror. The shards reflected strange things, throwing light to flicker from the grey walls, making the mica in the grit shine in a starfield of diamond.

A splinter shimmered, colours running across the surface in puppet-theatre rainbows.

Flicker: _A swarm of needles buzzing past his head. They looked like grey hornets. _

John blinked, not understanding. Needles did not fly. They did not buzz. He raised a hand sluggishly, feeling it drag as though encased in a lead glove.

Flicker: _The day had been overcast, with the promise of rain. The skies matched the eyes of the man before him, who was being sliced from groin to chin._

He did not know that man. He did not know his name.

Flicker: _Seeing the boy running the wrong way. The landscape flickered at the chase. It merged in rivers of green and brown into a ditch. _

John groaned, clutching his head with both weighted hands, his eyes shut against the intrusion of the light and the strange cinema playing out behind his closed lids.

Flicker: _Clothing flapping in a surreal parody of a bird's wings._

Flicker:_ An explosion sending up a mushroom cloud of leaves_

Flicker: "_Do it!_"

_Flicker..._

A creak sounded, heavy boots echoed through the open door. It was almost a relief, but tempered with the wisdom of the long-damned. This was a strange place, a strange, filthy, stinking place and he was in pain. So he was probably in a prison or holding cell somewhere. Two and two equalled four.

It beat being dead, but not by much.

Voices murmured at the edge of his hearing, harsh and uncaring. _Hostiles_, he reminded himself as the flickering shards merged into a continuous loop. _Raiders. Murderers. Enemies. _He grew a little stronger as he remembered. He had been trained for this, practised endlessly for this, played this out again and again. The rituals that would surely follow would almost feel like home.

A hard toecap jarred his ribs and made him wheeze out a scream on what air remained. Laughter sounded, then a rough hand grabbed the back of his shirt, hauling him up. He glimpsed an unshaven face scattered with purple pustules, the nose as red as a Goodyear blimp, before a fetid sack was dragged over his head and the darkness returned.

o.O.o

"You left him."

Possibly only Teyla saw the flinch stutter through Ronon at those words, so even and unforgiving and so very, very wrong. Zelenka had escaped early, dialling back to the Jussurans' planet almost immediately after reporting to check through the DHD addresses even after the Jussurans themselves had told him that the raiders had come before and always dialled at least six different addresses before going anywhere of importance. Teyla did not despise him for his hasty exit, but she did envy him a little.

So did Ronon. Perhaps. "He told us to leave."

"And you did."

Ronon tensed even further. "There were bombs going off everywhere. We couldn't get back to him. Sheppard–"

"You ran," and now the flinch had returned, the smallest _up-down_ of skin imaginable but there. She had seen Ronon face innumerable Wraith, Replicators, death by decompression or blood-loss or just plain _fear_, and never had he flinched. Most of the time he hadn't even blinked.

"The villagers–"

"You ran."

Rodney was not yelling, nor berating them, or showing any emotion at all. It was starting to frighten her, his flat voice and flat expression, the deadness in his eyes. She wanted to shake him, to say _no_, it hadn't been _like_ that, there had been nothing they could do, not against explosives and bullet-fast needles,_ there was nothing they could have done_.

She didn't. She knew Rodney wouldn't understand, didn't _want_ to, really. The raiders were gone now, he had never seen them in any case; they were ghosts, less than ghosts. They had no reality. But Ronon and she were big and solid and _there_, and they could be hurt as the marauders could not.

"We ran," she said calmly, ignoring the look of pain in both men's eyes; one smothered in cold rage, the other in guilt. Or perhaps a little of both in each. "We had no choice." And she believed that.

But when she lay on her bed that night staring at the ceiling, the hurt of the day pounding in her ears, she wondered.

o.O.o

It was warm inside the foul-smelling bag, but strangely soothing. The darkness comforted; it allowed him to imagine he was being led down a nice clean corridor and Carter (_Elizabeth_) would be at the other side with the ransom or... he didn't _care_ how, it would just _happen_: the money would be paid or Ronon would growl extra menacingly and he'd be taken back to Atlantis (_home_), Keller (_Carson_) would patch him up, maybe a few sessions with Dr Patterson (_Heightmeyer_) and he'd be _alright_. Safe and free and alright.

The dream was so clear it was actually something of a shock when he was dumped on his knees, the sack pulled off to reveal not Carter or Teyla or (God forbid) Rodney but a pale, neatly-dressed man who looked to be in his early fifties, gaunt-faced and grey haired precisely parted on one side. John, who had been forced to endure five episodes of _Firefly_ when Ronon invited Dr Keller to their video evening, thought he bore a passing resemblance to the shorter of the Blue Hands. It wasn't a nice thought.

He shivered. How had it gone again? _Two by two, hands of blue. _

But the man beside him was a decade or two younger, dressed in sober workman's clothes, and wearing no gloves of any description. He didn't look like anyone John had ever seen, unless it was maybe a quarterback who had been lucky with the injuries. Unlike – he glanced up at the man holding his shoulder, all purple spots and red nose and yellow teeth and scars – his guard. He was also standing by a metal chair with straps and pointy, spiky things that would surely have warmed the heart of the Marquis de Sade.

This was looking less and less like a ransom demand.

Shit.

The grey-haired man gave him an appraising look, as though sizing up a side of beef, before leaving the room with a nod to his younger counterpart. The other man nodded back, then gestured John's guard towards the chair before turning to a strange looking cabinet thing near the far wall.

Double shit.

Without sparing a moment for thought – and oh _God_, he was _never_ going to admit that to Rodney – John brought his feet up underneath him, balanced on the balls of his bare toes and launched himself at the man so fast his guard was left grasping empty air. The _oomph_ of breath leaving his would-be interrogator as his head connected with the man's stomach was extremely satisfying.

The boot in his gut was somewhat less so, the implosion of pain even less than that. As he curled on his own private world of hurt and wondered how you knew if your spleen had been ruptured the guard landed another good one near his knee, the resulting _crack_ and lancing daggers of agony suggesting broken bones. A sharp word stopped him, and as John started to get control of his breathing he was hauled upright and plonked on something hard.

The guard strapped his wrists and ankles down, grinning maliciously as the movement jerked John's injured knee and made him wince, then tightened another strap across his chest and stepped back. John yanked his best shit-eating grin back on and did his best to look unconcerned.

Okay, okay. So this was an interrogation. Nothing new, or particularly surprising. It wasn't like he had never done it before; hell, unless the man had Larrin or a hungry Wraith hidden in his pocket there probably wasn't any cause for concern. Compared to a Queen or Kolya, these two were _amateurs_.

Put like that, he could calm down a little. "So, you guys gonna tell me your names?"

Young man ignored him. Guard man snorted but did nothing. John decided to push his luck a little, since it was obviously too feeble to move on its own.

"Huey and Duey? Bill and Ted?" John cracked his grin wider as the guard started scowling at him and the other picked up a syringe. "How about Doc and Dopey? Yeah... you look like a Dop–"

His sarcasm was cut short by the newly-christened Dopey's fist in his stomach. John sucked in a lungful of fetid air, gasping as he managed to croak out "See, now I might have to call you _Grumpy_..."

"Enough." The word was said quietly, but it stopped Dopey-or-Grumpy dead in his tracks. Doc was holding the syringe at the ready with an expression of mild annoyance. "Leave him alone."

Dopey –_ yeah_,John decided,_ he's a Dopey..._ – stepped backwards at once and hastily, pausing only to shoot a look filled with dark promises in John's direction before taking up his place in the corner of the room. John glared back at him balefully until Doc spoke again.

"I would advise you not to waste your breath taunting him, friend." Doc tapped the syringe and started forward, his expression as calm as a man discussing the weather with an old booze-buddy. "Although I know you will probably continue anyway. Your type always does."

John eyed the approaching needle warily, squirming as it neared his neck. "I'm not your friend, score one for your IQ, and what the hell is _my type_?"

Doc smiled but did delay to answer. John saw the needle disappear into his blind spot just before he felt a slight prick on his shoulder he steeled himself against so as not to flinch. The coldness that spread from the tiny wound matched the sudden chill under his heart. _What was that? Sedative? Truth serum? Poison? _The uncertainty was almost worse than the effects of whatever the liquid had been – numbness interspersed with a faint prickling, almost like poison ivy. He started to fidget slightly, neck muscles becoming increasingly tense.

"We find three types of men in here, friend." Doc was watching him patiently; his were eyes flicking over John's flushed features as though taking notes. "First are the cowards. They talk as soon as they sit in that chair and never stay long. Second are the stoics. They try not to talk but they always have weak points; friends, family, hidden fears. Once we find those they break apart like rotten wood."

The prickling had become a burning, an irritation exactly like poison ivy. John found himself pulling at his wrist restraints unconsciously, despite knowing damn well his arms weren't about to go anywhere. But it _itched_.

Doc smiled slightly, then journeyed back to his corner and the cabinet to fill the needle again. He turned with it brimming. "The last are your kind. The daring men. The would-be heroes. They let their fear flow through them in taunts and brave words. They are also the rarest; I have only ever met one before in a... professional capacity."

John clenched his jaw as the second needle was jabbed into his thigh, the chill spreading like an ink stain under his skin. "Did... he talk?"

Doc turned away and filled a third needle.

"Eventually," he said.

o.O.o

Idiots. He was surrounded by idiots. It was unfair, yes, _unfair_ that someone who had earned two PhDs should have to spend his working time – which was pretty much _all_ his time – surrounded by morons, especially one messy-haired flyboy moron in particular who was stupid enough to take on about twenty nasty armed men all at once then go and get himself _caught_ with absolutely _no_ consideration as to the time other people would lose _searching_ for him and _worrying_ about him...

"Dr McKay."

... Yes _worrying_ because he wasn't a callous, cheerless bastard as so many people seemed to think, he _did_ care, he cared a _lot_, and because he cared a lot he tended to get _distracted_ over things like his (_friend_) team leader being _kidnapped_ and he _seriously_ didn't need the distraction right now because...

"_Dr McKay._"

... Because he was sharing a room with four twitchy marines and their increasingly annoyed life-sucking-alien-vampire-thing charge, who was looking at him with an expression Rodney usually reserved for the more retarded members of his team. It stung him into being a little more irritable with said life-sucking-alien-vampire than he usually was, although the fact that it was several desks and four P90s' worth of bullets away from feeding on him probably helped.

"What?" he snapped.

"You have been running the same simulation for the past Lantean half-hour. I do not think the results will be any different on the twenty-fifth time than they were the other twenty-four."

Rodney ground his teeth. "When I want your advice I'll _ask_ for it, and until you earn two PhDs and become a genius in maths that's about as likely to happen as Ronon proposing marriage to you."

It didn't seem to take the hint from his tone and shut up, instead snorting and turning back to its terminal. Jerk.

Rodney sighed and ran the simulation again.

o.O.o

"What is your name?"

He got asked that a lot. Of course the precise wording of the query varied, ranging from "Uh, hey..." to "Who the _hell_ are you?" but the underlying question remained the same. If you moved around as much as he had then you had to get used to people not knowing your face.

Wasn't always good to answer, though. Like now.

"What is your name?"

He itched all over. His shoulder was on fire, the inside of both his thighs were blazing and part of his right arm was a welted reddish colour, like nettle burn. The sensation was slowly but surely driving him insane.

Doc filled up yet another syringe, then took out a small knife. John tensed and almost yelped at it swept down his chest, but it only cut the fabric of his shirt with a cleanness that showed a worrying sharpness to the blade. No doubt the little dagger had other uses beyond ruining a perfectly good part of his BDUs.

The alien interrogator smiled slightly at him, before pulling apart the lips of his shirt remains. The hand holding the syringe hovered near his collarbone.

"Just your name. That's all I want."

He wasn't beaten yet. Not even close.

"Get bent."

Doc nodded, as though his reply was both reasonable and interesting. "I didn't really expect any other answer."

The needle pierced the hollow of his throat. Ice formed at the tip.

o.O.o

An hour later – or maybe two, or even three, he couldn't keep count – he was returned to his cell shirtless and covered in patches of raised inflamed bumps. Almost as soon as he hit the floor he was scratching, not caring that he was making matters worse or that his nails were leaving behind sticky red rivers in their wake. Eventually he disciplined himself into stopping, sitting on his hands and counting backwards from a thousand in his head using only prime numbers. The itch hadn't died by the time he stopped, but it wasn't driving him nutty either.

Then the guard came and took him back to the chair.

The next session lasted longer; the one after that was longer still. The patches spread to under both arms, the soles of his feet and one between his shoulder blades. After the third session he wondered why they kept stopping, because he knows if Doc had kept this up continuously – and it already feels as though he's been here most of one day – he'd probably have gone wacko, maybe even cracked... maybe.

They threw him back in the cell to lie on the stinking straw and rub occasionally when the itching got too much. A battered tin bowl containing water and another with some sort of pasty-grey porridge was left in the corner, and the door closed. The light outside was muted, but still enough to let him see by. Not that that was any great help.

He drank the water – brackish but bearable – and tried the porridge cautiously. It had roughly the same taste and texture as old glue, and he pushed it away after only three mouthfuls. It's not like he'd starve, since his team was going to be here soon anyway.

When the guard came for him the next morning – or as much as he can tell with the constant weird glow – he still told himself that.

And when Dopey clouted him over the head after John tried to rabbit-punch him under the chin.

And when Doc injected the itching serum into three different parts of his abdomen.

He answered his own question though, through the whole day of torture – no peace for the wicked anymore. Lying in filth with welts opened through frantic scratching was never a good thing. Already the red patches were turning a nastier, darker shade, and several of them were already swollen. His knee wasn't looking too good either, although it seemed more bruised rather than broken as he had last thought – a stormy purple-blue. It throbbed when he kept it still and shrieked when he tried to move.

But still, his friends would come for him. A few infected scratches wouldn't give Keller too much trouble.

On the third morning his faith was still unwavering.

o.O.o

"Zelenka!"

Radek winced in anticipation. Since Colonel Sheppard's disappearance McKay had been near to unbearable, which was saying a lot for a man who insulted his staff as a routine and had an ego that burst the borders of small countries. The scientist was moody, irritable and had made one of the junior biologists cry when the unfortunate woman had asked if he wanted something from the mess hall. It was starting to become excruciating to be in the same room as him.

Like now. "Zelenka," McKay puffed, his face radiating annoyance. "Didn't you get my email? Carter's assigning you permanently to trying to track down Sheppard."

What? Radek stared at him. He had always assumed... well who _wouldn't_ assume McKay would be the one trying to find the Colonel? The two argued like a pair of bickering old women, but when push had come to shove Sheppard had personally hunted down the man who had kidnapped McKay not so long ago, and surely they wouldn't have lasted so long on the same team if...

"Hey!" _Zatraceně_, but the man was doing that irritating finger-snapping thing under Radek's nose. "Wakey wakey in there! Did you hear what I just said?"

He shook himself mentally and snapped back, "Yes I heard you, I am not an idiot child. And no, I did not get your email."

This had the benefit of momentarily distracting McKay. "Damn, the computer systems must be on the blink again. I'll get that Italian guy to look at it, Macky, Magry, whatever his name is..."

"Macri," Radek supplied automatically, not mentioning the Italian in question was actually an anthropologist and wouldn't know a software program if he was hit over the head with it. "Yes, yes, alright. I know now."

"Good." McKay hesitated, before glaring at him as though just seeing him. "Well, what are you waiting for? A commendation?"

"Hah," Radek said under his breath, but very quietly. McKay looked at him sharply before hurrying off somewhere else, no doubt to find the unfortunate Macri. Radek shook his head before heading back to the labs not currently occupied by their resident man-eating alien. This was going to be difficult enough without having that monstrosity breathing down his neck.

Point of fact. Radek shuddered. Did the Wraith even know Sheppard was missing? It was doubtful, since it had contacted them primarily through the man thanks to the incident with Kolya – Radek didn't know the specifics but scientists gossiped like washerwomen and told taller tales. If it found out Sheppard was gone...

Ah well. That was McKay's problem now. He cheered up a bit and commed Miko.

"_Ahoj_, Dr Miko, I need the last fifty addresses from the DHD you have been working on." Miko had been assigned as a stopgap since McKay and most of the staff had been busy saving the world with his nanite codes and she had volunteered. Miko also had something of a soft spot for Sheppard, like most of the other female members of the expedition. "Yes, apparently Carter has assigned them to me now. Page them to me as soon as you can please. _Děkuji_."

He switched off the com and hurried onwards. For everyone's sake this needed to be solved as quickly as possible.

o.O.o

That day there were no questions. Doc injected a massive amount of itch into the small of John's back and left him.

By mid-morning (or when the light was brightest) most of John's skin was a mass of red blisters, sores and weals in various shades of angry crimson. Several of the oldest ones – those on his shoulder, thigh, lower arm, and collarbone – had blistered and were oozing clear sticky fluid, the sores raw and sore to the touch. He tried splashing some of his drinking water on the worst affected areas, but it was at best a temporary relief.

By mid-afternoon (or when the light was dimmer) Doc had returned, bearing bowl of aloe-smelling amber liquid and a cloth. "This is a solution made from _curata_ sap. If you put it on the sores every sunrise they will be healed in five days."

John's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"

"I doubt you need to ask."

No, he didn't. "Bite me."

For the briefest of instances an expression of tight, controlled anger flashed across Doc's face like a cloud. Then it was gone and the calm professionalism was firmly back in place.

"Remember, you chose what happens next."

He left.

o.O.o

Day five passed without interruption, apart from the two bowls dumped just inside the door in the evening. The blisters were now sour-smelling, the clear liquid like foul egg whites. Most of the other inflamed areas were blistered as well, and now the maddening itch had been replaced with pure pain.

Pain was okay, though. He could handle pain. This was _nothing_.

He ate the gluey-tasting gunk, retching as he did so but choking it down anyway. He was in no position to be picky about what he ate, and he needed to keep up his strength. The water was a little better, though brackish, but he spent most of that cleaning what wounds he could. The smell coming from some of them was starting to make the porridge threaten a reappearance.

There were no toilets in his cell, not even a bucket, so when the urge to pee got too strong he was forced to do it in the furthest corner. The stink did nothing for his nausea, and drove him to lie practically in front of the cell door. He scattered some straw over the offending liquid and did his best to ignore it.

His hand itched, and he scratched it without looking, then cursed himself for doing so. Then looked down and cursed again, because it hadn't been one of the swollen patches that had caused the twinge but a horribly familiar little black dot. Great. As though he didn't have enough things to worry about without the Pegasus equivalent of fleas to add to his woe.

He smacked the bug off his hand, and tried to get some sleep.

o.O.o

The words scurrying around Radek's head as he scrolled down fifty plus 'gate addresses for the fourth time that morning – matching up those that had not already been dug out and explored to known worlds that included all the characteristics on the list by his elbow – were many, varied and similar only in their offensiveness.

He had been doing this for six days already; Dr McKay was too busy trying to crack the nanite code to do anything but annoy. The original DHD had yielded fifty or so 'gate addresses, each of which had been checked and explored; none of them containing anything remotely useful except another fifty or so addresses, each of which were explored and contained nothing except fifty _more_ addresses, which were being explored...

It was a nightmare, a complete _posrat_. And his head was _killing_ him.

"Dr Zelenka?" It was Miko, the little Japanese woman who was so taken with McKay. "AR-4 has arrived back from P1X-138 with the new coordinates."

Radek put his head in his hands and groaned. "_Ses posral v kine_? Already? They were not due back for another day!"

"I, I am sorry," she stammered, "the only settlement there had been culled, and with no survivors they didn't think they should stay–"

"Yes, yes, I understand. Thank you!" Radek added as Miko scurried away, not very sincerely. Fifty _more_ addresses to look through now, and the chances of actually finding Colonel Sheppard were growing smaller with each passing day. Much as he liked and respected the man, Radek's patience was starting to grow thin.

He stared at the glaring screen, a tension headache pulsing in his temples. There was another three hours to go until he could break for lunch, and the figures in front of him were actually starting to swim before his eyes. Radek sighed.

"_Seru__na_," he muttered, "This is pointless. And I am going for a coffee. If Rodney complains, _mrda'm na to_."

He would think better with caffeine. Wherever Sheppard was, he would surely understand that.

o.O.o

"I must admit, you're holding up better than I thought you might."

The words were probably not really meant to be smug or patronising – they had been delivered in the same calm, cool tone as everything else Doc had ever said – but it wound John up nonetheless. Six days of almost constant irritation and pain would do that to a guy, not to mention the sleepless night previously. His eyes were aching with tiredness. "Always happy to disappoint."

Doc smiled; a mere twitch of the lips that looked about as sincere as the tears of a crocodile. "I'd noticed. Unfortunately for you my masters are getting impatient, and so we must move on to another method sooner than you might like."

"'Masters', eh? Is the doggy not fetching any good bones?" John eyed the man warily despite his sarcasm, tensing at the sight of yet another needle emerging, this one filled with a diamond-coloured liquid. Ah crap, what now?

"No bones," Doc said amiably. "Just a little truth serum. If it helps this won't hurt as much and will probably be done with sooner."

_No, it doesn't help_, John thought, but he felt his face said it clearly enough that his mouth didn't have to. He yanked at the straps on the chair futilely as Doc tipped his chin back with firm fingers and injected straight into his jugular. _This is really not helping at all. _

There was no chill this time, but warmth. Pleasant warmth that made him think of winter spent in front of the big old fire in his favourite childhood home, the one with the stables and the bay mare that could outrun the wind. The hearth had been as big as he was; the logs used to feed the flames had been as long as his arm. It had been nice to come in after a day's hacking to just lie in front of the fire and reads magazines and annoy David.

"No sleeping." Someone was tapping his cheek, _slapping_ it really, and it didn't feel like a woman, which was weird. "Wake up, friend. You need to tell me something. Then you can sleep."

He wanted to sleep _now_.

"I just need to know your name. Can you tell me your name?"

Fuck it. Still in the same damn interrogation room, same damn question he was getting sick of hearing. Couldn't Doc think of anything more interesting to throw at him?

"Sure," he said, grinning woozily. There was no David to annoy, so maybe Doc would do. It would pass the time until his team got here. "Name's Solo. Han's Solo. I go around with a real hairy guy called R... Chewie. 'Cos he chews people up. Seriously."

There was a pause. "Friend, I'm a trained questioner. I know when people are lying to me. What is your name?"

"Okay, you caught me. I'm Kirk. Ask... anyone. Jimmy Kirk. Captain of the good ship _Enterprise_. Spock'll be along any minute."

Doc sighed, but said nothing further. Damn, but his head felt strange – like it had been stuffed with soggy cotton wool. Muggy and thick. It was hard to think. His thoughts were too slow now, swollen and bumping in his head like dumplings in a pot. John felt something prick his neck beside the other needle-mark, and the woozy feeling doubled. He felt vaguely sick.

"Friend, please, you must listen. Are you listening?"

"Not... friend." No, no he wasn't. His friends weren't here. Where were his friends?

"I don't know where your friends are. Do you want to find them?"

He'd said that out loud? Bad. He shouldn't speak. He _wouldn't_ speak. This was a bad place, and he wasn't going to speak. But... his friends...

"Please, you must help me. I can't find your friends if I don't know your name."

Friends... no this man was enemy. And John couldn't tell him anything, or his real friends would hurt. He was being interrogated, and he couldn't say anything. Not until his _real_ friends came. His name was his own.

"Won't they be worried? Won't they be looking for you?"

He sounded so sad, so reproachful. John felt ashamed, then angry at himself for feeling shame, then guilty because enemy or not the man was right. Ronon and Teyla and Rodney would be looking for him, and they would be worried. They were his family, and they would be worried.

"Help me contact them."

No.

"Tell me your name."

No.

A finger touched his cheek gently, and John noticed for the first time that his face was damp with more than just sweat, and his eyes were watering with more than just the pain from the open sores – a distant, hazy pain right now. "You miss them."

He forced his tongue to move. "None of your... business."

"I can help you."

"Tell it to my... gun."

Doc didn't. He kept on and on, with twisty little words and weaselling phrases of _help_ and _contacting_ and _friendship_. John stayed insulted him or cracked wiseass remarks when he could gather enough of his marbles together, but mostly he stayed silent. Silent was safer.

Eventually Doc had to give up and send him back to his cell, much to Dopey's disgust. John got the distinct impression the guard found his continued defiance a personal insult, although the actual insults probably didn't help his case any. He had plenty of time to comment on Dopey's personal hygiene, probable parentage and looks on the way back to his wonderful little piece of the godforsaken rock.

"... But look on the bright side, at least at Halloween you won't have to pick out a costume. If this dirtball has Halloween, which considering the inhabitants," John laughed harshly through the miasma of drugs as they approached the swollen wooden door, "is likely. You have to practise _some_ time."

"Shut up," Dopey grunted as he shoved his way inside; John's injured knee meant that his guard was having to do most of the supporting work. The man's face had turned red, which combined with the purple spots was _not_ the most pleasant if sights. Although it did match his nose.

"Ah don't feel bad, I didn't mean it. It's not a bad face. Even kind of endearing." John grinned lopsidedly as he was pushed through the door. "Reminds me of a dog I used to have."

Dopey snarled and shoved him into the room, slamming him into the floor hard enough to bruise. John was still wheezing when a foot smashed into his ribs, making him scream in agony and bite his own tongue as several things cracked under his already abused skin. The guard kicked him a few more times before smirking and leaving without a word.

John lay a few minutes, paralysed with pain, before rolling over with a groan. His ribs creaked and a stabbing jolt made him wince. Oh yeah, there was something broken under there. Carson was gonna kill him.

_No, Keller. Carson's dead, remember?_

He crawled over to the thickest part of the straw and collapsed with a moan.

o.O.o

He saw the new day dawn with dread, the light making eerie patterns on his untouched bowl of prison-glop. He'd tried to eat it, but as soon as it had touched the back of his throat he'd gagged and spat it back up, along with blood he hoped was only from his bitten tongue. The water was all gone, making as much impact on his thirst as a drop of rainwater in the Nevada desert. He licked dry lips as the door opened and a smug looking Dopey came through.

The guard didn't deign to speak with him, but prodded his ribs a few times with the toe of a hard boot, laughed when John yelped and tried to stand, then hauled him up and pushed him towards the door. John resisted the urge to struggle uselessly and let himself be manhandled back up the hated grey corridors, through the hated iron-bound door with its rusty nails, and into the de Sade chair he was truly starting to loathe.

Doc was in there, needle at the ready as he was strapped down with winces for his injured chest and knee. The interrogator saw the bruise spreading under the remains of John's shirt and looked up at Dopey with a frown. The skin had blackened, with a patchy red centre like a dying sun.

"You were not supposed to injure him."

The guard shrugged. "He tried to escape."

"Liar," John rasped, but his words were ignored. Oh man, this was like school all over again, except this time the bully was a foot taller than he was and was old enough to grow stubble to match the hog-bristles on his head. And the teacher was a psychopath with a penchant for drugs.

Doc snorted, indicated he was not surprised, and shot a syringe full of god-knew-what into John's neck without a pause. Instantly he was floating in a pleasant haze, the pain suddenly happening to someone else. But an annoying little voice kept intruding.

_Your name, tell me your name. _

Damn it, couldn't they leave him alone. He ignored the voice steadfastly.

"I need to know your name."

"No... comment," he told the voice, then chuckled because he sounded fifteen again, picked up for underage drinking with a group of friends he could now freely admit were jerks. His dad had gone ballistic.

"Tell me your name."

"Ask my dad," he said, then chuckled again at his own wit. He'd give a lot for Doc to go head-to-head with the old man.

"I can't ask your dad, I don't now who you are. If you tell me, I can get him–"

"Nah," John wheezed in amusement, the stifled a cough that made his ribs shriek. "Don't think he should know. Doesn't need to know..."

He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. _He doesn't need to know I've screwed up again. _

Something pricked his neck again, and he felt himself drift. It was nice up here, where the hurt was far away. He could stay here a while, if that voice would just stay quiet and let him.

"He'll be worried about you. Do you want him to worry?"

John's head lolled. "Shuddup," he pleaded, narrowing his eyes to paper-thin lines.

"Just tell me your name and I will."

John breathed in. Out. Focused. "No."

The voice didn't quit, and it didn't get any quieter. It went on and on and it wouldn't just _shut up already_ and give him a break. No, it wouldn't, because he was being interrogated and he had to remember that. But it was so hard to think...

He drifted off at some point and woke up in his cell again, confused and frightened at the memory gap. The light was dim and the bowls by the door suggested it was late evening. But he didn't remember anything passed what had to have been early afternoon.

_It's the drug_, he thought woozily, his chest twanging as he shifted and elbow-walked to the bowls. _It's affecting my memory. _

He drank most of the water in one gulp but couldn't face trying to eat the gruel again. Panting slightly despite the cold – the cell was frigid – he crawled back over to a nearby wall and lay down facing the high window.

_I'll have a look outside soon_, he thought drowsily as his eyelids tugged downwards. _Just need... a little rest. Just a little..._

His eyelashes flattened against his cheek as he started to snore.

o.O.o

When he woke it was early morning, so early it was still dark, his chest and knee throbbing horribly. It took him a few moments to remember where he was, before pushing himself up, supporting most of his weight on is left leg. Moving slowly – he felt as though he was trying to walk through the gluey porridge – he staggered up to the window and craned his neck upwards.

The slit was high, but it terminated at just above eyelevel. If he stood on one of the bowls...

Reeling and swaying, still light-headed from the drugs and the pain, John tottered back to the bowls and unceremoniously emptied the food one, before tottering back and stacking them atop one another. He stepped on then with his left foot, letting his crippled right one swing freely, and ignored the pain of his cracked ribs as he stretched upwards to the unknown sky.

His eyes reached the window and he looked out. It only lasted three seconds before the poorly stacked bowls slipped and slid from under his foot, sending him back down to land on his injured leg. John turned white with pain and swore for a straight minute through gritted teeth as he carefully collapsed underneath the light-giving gap.

What he had seen had been brief, but he didn't care. The sky outside had been the deepest purple he had ever seen, speckled with diamond stars in strange patterns, washed with the light of two distant moons hanging in the sky – one white, one a delicate pale lilac. A beautiful sight, fleeting though it had been. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again light was filtering down to touch him, greyish and sickly. He shivered and waited for what he knew was to come, before thinking back on what he had seen again to take his mind off things.

The building he was in looked flat and rectangular built of rough grey stone and girdled with a deep ditch. A smooth road had led down towards what looked like pasture land. It puzzled him, and after a few minutes he realised why. Most Pegasus cultures hadn't evolved past dirt roads at best, let alone proper paving slabs or grit, and this one had both from the looks of it. It suggested development far beyond that of a society that lived in constant fear of cullings.

He sniggered weakly. Great. At least he didn't have to worry about the Wraith. Just a maniac with mind-altering drugs and a guard with an IQ dimmer than a dead bulb.

Said dead-bulb guard appeared like the bogeyman as soon as his name was mention, or a monstrous jack-in-the-box bent on cruelty. He grinned a sadistic little grin before hauling John up by his ragged shirt.

The shirt tore, dumping him on the hard flagstones in a flash of white pain and a scream of agony. Dopey cursed and kicked at his abused back as though it were his fault, making John scream again and louder. The white of pain was replaced with rage, and he hurled himself at the man in fury.

Dopey simply batted him away as he might have a fly, before tearing off what remained of his shirt and grabbing him by his hair. John punched out at him and bit, making the guard curse again but failing to loosen his grip. Dopey clouted him around the ears until his head rang, before dragging him out and down the hated corridor again.

John didn't go quietly. He'd had enough of compromising and trying to lay low – Dopey plainly held a grudge and biting him probably hadn't helped. The man was out for John's blood, and if that had to be spilt it was going to mix with a lot of his tormentors. He punched and jabbed with his free hand and kicked when that was pinned in a meaty fist, wriggling desperately when he reached the interrogation room and its awaiting ghoul. Only through the combined efforts of Doc and Dopey was he finally pinned in the chair, the straps tightened extra tight in retaliation.

"You have only yourself to blame," Doc commented when he was finally restrained and the drug was ready. "If you had cooperated from the beginning there would have been no need for this."

"Go... screw... a pig," John panted out in a snarl of hatred. His ribs were protesting against the tight strap across his chest again, and he could hardly breathe.

Doc chose to ignore him, instead taking a needle somewhat larger than the ones before and filled to the brim with diamond-coloured fluid. He pinned John's head to the back of the chair with one hand and plunged the syringe into his neck with the other before taking his place in front of the chair.

"Do you want to answer the question before I ask?"

John's only answer was to peel his lips apart in what was only a smile because sharks didn't have lips. He could feel the drug tugging him down into a hazy grey mist, and soon he was floating again, floating and letting his head flop down almost to his bare chest. Someone patted his cheek.

"You need to tell me your name."

"Owen... Money." Damn, he still hadn't paid Ronon for that bet he owed. Not money, but five Hershey bars because the man had beat him on one of McKay's illegally downloaded shoot-em-up games. Chocolate was worth more than coin to the big Satedan.

"What is your name?"

"Cal Culator." He should probably top grinning when he said these, but he couldn't stop. He had a whole childhood's worth to draw on. Doc was gonna be here a long time.

"What is your name?"

"Holden D'Mayo."

"What is your name?"

"Ray C. Flagg."

A sigh. "Please, don't waste both our times. What is your name?"

Did the man never take a break? "Frank Furter."

"Your name, please."

"I. P. Freely."

The pause this time was longer, broken by a weary sigh. "If you continue these charades I will be forced to take more drastic measures, friend."

"Not your friend," John mumbled defiantly, closing his eyes against the lantern light, dim though it was. He just wanted to sleep. Damn, just _sleep_, no pain, no scratchy straw, no bugs. No Doc, either. He could feel, as though his skin was covered in varnish, Doc fiddling with something – some _things_ – cold and thin, taping them to his chest.

"Friend, I am going to ask one more time and you would prefer to answer me truthfully. What is your name?"

John opened his eyes, then smiled lazily. "Ben Dover."

Instantly his whole body convulsed as what felt like enough electricity to power half of Maine shot through him. It only lasted scant seconds, but it left him gasping. "B-bastard..."

"What is your name?"

"Screw you!"

The next jolt almost stopped his heart, making the organ patter wildly as soon as the electricity stopped flowing. Doc watched him gulp down air before saying softly "You cannot win this."

John held his gaze, peeled back his lips in a snarl. "Watch me."

Another jolt was his reward. Stars appeared in front of his eyes, purple ones interspersed with green blobs. He blinked to clear his vision and felt sweat run down from his hair despite the chill.

"Tell me your name!"

"Fuck off!"

The shock lasted longer, long enough for his spine to arch enough that the back of his head hit the chair, his limbs twitching uncontrollably. He could hear Dopey sniggering in the background, and felt the old, dry, terrible rage come back, roaring through the blood rushing behind his ears.

"You _will_ tell me your name!"

"_No!_"

Doc shocked him again... and again...

There was an odd smell in the air he couldn't place, but which made him think of barbeques in the back garden when dad had still had time to grill them sausages and mom had been alive to help him. He realised it was him, and looked down at his chest. The area around the tape was smoking.

Doc stepped up close and pulled his head back, forcing him to look his tormentor in the eye. "I can do this all day if I have to."

Gathering what moisture remained in his mouth, John spat in his face.

The resulting shock pushed him into the blackness of deepest unconsciousness.

o.O.o

They didn't let him stay there for long. Doc pulled him out with a bucket of cold water, then injected him with more fluid and started the question-answer session again. Every time John answered – and lied – he was shocked, the air soon becoming thick with the stench of burning meat. Eventually he kept his mouth shut and refused to say anything.

Doc shocked him a few more times, used yet another syringe on him, then called it quits for the day. Dopey half-carried John's lifeless form back to his cell and dumped him without a word, leaving with a thud of the door that made John flinch automatically.

So dry. His mouth was so dry. He looked around but neither water nor food had been taken in yet – the light outside was brighter than usual, still a weak, watery yellow. It was only late afternoon. Doc must have been afraid that he was killing his captive to let him go so early.

John coughed a laugh and grimaced as everything hurt. _He wasn't far wrong. _

The cell door banged open and two bowls were pushed through. He didn't hesitate but downed the water in one go, ate half the porridge before giving up and leaving the rest by the door, then lying on his back with his face toward the window.

He took stock of his injuries so far. Sores, blisters, some of them infected, a bashed knee that was still a thunder-cloud of bluish-purple, at least one cracked rib, maybe more, and two burn marks on his chest. Not to mention whatever internal damage had been caused by the frequent jolts of electricity.

He was a mess. Well and truly a mess.

John lay there a little longer, watching the light fade into greyish dusk streaked with red. Like blood on stone, he thought, or a burn on pallid flesh.

He heard birds singing, then fading with the light until there was only the quiet chirp of some unknown nocturnal insect, the rustle of straw as it settled around him and the scurrying of Pegasus rodent-equivalents in the walls.

"Guys, I don't know where you are," he murmured to the dusk, "but I'm starting to get serious abandonment issues here."


	3. Breaking and Being Broken: Chapter 2

This would have been uploaded yesterday, but my surprise birthday bash got in the way. However, I seem to have recovered fully :)

* * *

The sessions continued much as they had before, electric shocks and all, blending into each other until John honestly wasn't sure how many he'd gone through. The memory gaps had increased, he felt constantly tired but couldn't sleep, and he couldn't walk in a straight line when he could walk at all. Whatever they were pumping into him was starting to take a heavy toll.

It scared him. Not the physical decay, but the mental one. He could deal with what was happening to his body, but his mind was off-limits – sacred, in a way. It was the one place he knew he could retreat to if things got too much, but it was starting to crumble like a sandcastle at high tide.

Only one thing broke the routine. It had to have been more than a week after he was taken (if he concentrated he could count seven interrogation sessions, and knew there were probably more) when Dopey came in with another guard, a gap-toothed fellow with muscular arms covered in tattoos and an almost marine-style buzz cut, who for some reason seemed to be carrying a handful of tattered rags. It took John a minute to recognise the remains of his own shirt.

Without preamble they had pinned him down and proceeded to strip John of his pants, socks, boots, wristband, and dog tags. He panicked – shit, who _wouldn't_, he knew enough of prison life to realise it probably didn't change whatever galaxy you were in – but a constant diet of sludge and water hadn't done anything for his muscle tone and they kept him trapped easily. They had left with his clothing, so now he was clad only in his increasingly grimy boxers.

God knew what they had wanted his clothes for. Maybe they needed new dusters.

John wheezed a laugh, then coughed painfully. The ribs weren't healing well, and neither were the sores. After the latter had started weeping fluids almost constantly Doc had sent a medic into his cell, a balding little nervous rat of a man with ferret eyes that never quite met anyone else's. The man had wiped his wounds with a cloth that would have sent Carson into panic-stricken hysterics, then slapped on some green mush that smelt of sage and pronounced this was all he could do. With all the weird drugs these people had you'd think they could do better...

That had been two days ago, or at least two days he remembered. Since then he had been left alone. The tension of the waiting was almost worse than the actual torture.

John shivered. Almost, but not quite.

o.O.o

Something was not right.

He _knew_ this. One did not rise to the position of warlord of a dozen Wraith Hiveships by failing to keep one's ear to the wind, such as it was. Nor did one did not have to have highly evolved olfactory and auditory senses – perfected over millennia upon millennia for hunting sentient prey – to smell the stress in the air or hear the tense whispers just out of earshot. They had been there for nearly two weeks now, as humans measured it, but of late they had escalated.

What was especially worrying was that even Dr McKay was being affected, even distracted. He had caught the human scientist staring blankly into space when he should have been running simulations, or doodling absently when he should have been researching codes. For someone who he was sure _slept_ in this laboratory (when he slept at all), this was bad.

Perhaps the Asurans were coming. Now _there_ was a cheerful thought. Unlikely, though. If anything, the threat of immediate death seemed to send McKay into hyperactivity, not lethargy. Or so he had observed; his approaching presence usually never failed to send the man bouncing off the walls.

He toyed with the idea of asking outright what the problem was, but dismissed it. The man was touchy, boastful, and arrogant to a fault, but he was not stupid. McKay wouldn't freely give away information to a potential enemy, and there was very little he could do to force the issue. Verbal threats aside, of course.

No, he would keep his ears open. He had half an idea already _who_ the problem revolved around; the question was _what_ and _why_.

The door opened quietly. _That_ was unusual. Most scientists (although he shared some of his counterpart's disdain for most of them) avoided this laboratory like... well, like there was a Wraith inside it. He chuckled quietly as an ashen-faced human in the uniform common to their military crossed the room with many a nervous glance towards him and stood in front of McKay's terminal uneasily.

"D-Dr McKay," he stuttered before swallowing dryly and saying the rest of the sentence at once, "they've found something."

He watched as McKay paled noticeably, before standing in one movement and hurrying out without a backwards glance, then nodded to himself and continued working. He was really inordinately fond of John Sheppard, and so hoped that whatever the problem was it would resolve itself without any harm to the man.

There were only so many times he could spare precious energy for the Gift, after all.

o.O.o

Dopey came for him the next day. The guard didn't even bother now with caution; both he and his prisoner knew damn well John was too weak to try anything and wouldn't be able to run anywhere if he was stupid enough to try. Mostly his duties were reduced to half-dragging, half-carrying John to and from his cell and the interrogation room and room service at meal times. The man was bored out of his skull, and took it out on John in any number of sly ways. After seeing his reaction to the unexpected undressing he had taken to sly touches – along John's spine and over his ribs, taking special care to press extra hard over the cracked ones. It wasn't overly sexual, but it was still creepy and never failed to make him tense up.

Doc looked unusually stressed today, with fine lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. Someone hadn't been sleeping well.

John could care less, but only because he wished the man an eternity of nightmares.

"You are a very troublesome prisoner, friend," Doc said as he fiddled a needle from the cabinet. His shoulders were sagged slightly inside his practical clothes and he was slower than he had been – opening unfamiliar drawers and taking out strange vials. At least there was no sign of the electroshock machine yet, something for which John was profoundly grateful. "In fact, I think you might yet be the most troublesome prisoner I have ever had to work with. And I have worked with many."

John spared a brief pang of pity for all the other poor bastards this man had introduced himself to. "Glad to hear it."

"Yes, I thought you might be." Doc turned, and John tensed. The needle in his hand was not filled with the familiar diamond-clear truth serum but with something tinted orange, and it was bigger than usual. "Unfortunately – for you – it means I must resort to this at last." He regarded the syringe with a mixture of admiration and sadness. "I am sorry. I suspect that if we had met in other circumstances I might have grown to like you. You have remarkable courage."

_Oh, this is not going to be pretty. _John's heart sank, but he tried to keep it out of his voice and face. "Put it on my tombstone."

"I regret I will not be able to." Doc sounded almost sincere at his stuck the needle into one of John's exposed wrist veins. "Our burial pits have no gravestones."

"Good to know." John frowned as he regarded the tiny river of blood welling, then running down his arm. He couldn't feel anything yet except a faint prickling sensation. Oh God, not more of that damn itching serum. "Now what?"

Doc settled in front of him in a relaxed parade-ground stance. "Now we wait."

They did so. It didn't take long for the first symptoms to appear. Tension in his temples, an ache down his bones, his good friend drowsiness. Not to mention dizziness, another old buddy of his. Maybe this was just a more potent version of the crap they'd been giving him before.

As time ticked on he was quickly corrected on that assumption. The tension escalated into a full-blown migraine, one of the worst pounders he'd had in a long while. It felt as though someone had clamped his head in a vice and was slowly squeezing. The dizziness swelled into nausea, not helped by the room suddenly deciding that spinning was a good idea. The ache along his bones seemed to emanate from his very marrows. It _hurt_.

"Yes, it does hurt doesn't it?" Shit, he'd spoken out loud again. He needed to stop doing that; if he talked, he was a threat to the safety of the city. To his _people_. Once they tricked his name from him they could move on to his rank, his position, where he had come from, 'gate addresses, the whole fucking parade. He needed to do what his daddy had told him, and learn to keep quiet.

"It is very potent, and I gave you a big dose. I have no more time for games, friend."

"Pity," John managed to croak defiantly through the sweating, reddish fog of agony. "I was gonna ask you if you wanted to play some pyramid. Dopey there could be our third."

The guard sneered and cracked his knuckles, but said nothing. Doc didn't even grant the jibe an exasperated look.

"Pain is corroding. It eats away at the body and soul. That dose will last most of the day. If I chose to administer others without let up you would break... eventually."

The man started to pace around his de Sade chair, like some sort of damned Nazi officer wannabe. "First you will start screaming. Screaming endlessly, unable to stop. After that you will loose control of your bodily functions. You will start to waste away. What weight you have left will fade. Then, in the end, as you sit in your own waste, your voice worn to a thin whisper and your limbs no more than sticks, madness sets in. The final mercy some call it." Doc smiled thinly. "I don't. You would still be aware when the guards take you to the back of the compound and shoot you."

John was silent. There wasn't really much you could say to something like that. Doc didn't appear to be perturbed by his muteness, but finished his circuit of the chair and stood in front of John calmly, his gaze almost kind.

"All you need to do, right now, is tell me your name. That is all. No tricks. Just tell me your name, and I will administer _this_ –" he held up a needle in one hand, filled with yellow fluid "– and there will be no more pain. Tell me where you come from, and I will return you to your cell for the rest of the day. Tell me the ring address to your world and I will see to it you are moved to somewhere with a real bed, real food and fresh water. That is all you have to do."

John gathered moisture into his mouth, just enough to speak. "Fuck... you."

Then he closed his mouth, and this time he swore he wouldn't speak again.

o.O.o

Desiccated grass crunched under Lorne's boot as he walked, grinding into the dry earth with a sound like crunching sand. P2X-118 was in the height of its summer season, and the sun was heavy and hot overhead. If it hadn't been for what they had found here, guided by the rumours of a nearby arable village, his men might have been in shirts and shorts, or at least clowning around in the heat. The planet had been culled recently, and there was no reason to suspect the Wraith would be back soon.

Of course it wasn't the Wraith who were the cause of... this.

He glanced behind him. Dr Biro and a pair of assistants were struggling with cases that clinked occasionally and looked heavy from the way they were being held. Lorne shivered slightly despite the heat, although he knew he had no reason to. Biro was perfectly polite, if brusque, and not in the least bit dangerous. She just happened to cut up dead people for a living.

Behind her were the remnants of Colonel Sheppard's team. Teyla was as calm as ever despite the hot walk and her pregnancy – if the Colonel had been here Lorne was sure he would have told her to stay in the city and not exert herself, whatever she might have done to him with her bantos sticks afterwards. Ronon's expression was unreadable, set in his familiar glower, although by the way he was fiddling with that pistol of his (which Lorne would have traded ten years of his life to own) he was either nervous or pissed. Possibly both. With Ronon they were often the same thing.

McKay was... not himself. The usually noisy and downright annoying scientist was silent and plodded doggedly without a word. It was a relief from the constant complaining that would have been Lorne's lot had this been any other journey, but it was also weird and, bluntly put, unnerving. Like seeing a thundercloud without any thunder.

He turned back in time to see the slight dip up ahead and sighed to himself before sending his team on sentry points with a wave of his hand. This was going to be unpleasant.

Later he would wonder if psychic powers ran in his family as well as a talent for art.

o.O.o

Everything hurt. His whole body hurt. His skin was on fire, his eyes pools of acid, molten lead running where his marrow should be. Every time his heart beat or he drew another breath, the pain spiked in unbearable jolts. It was agony even to think. He was trembling with each wave, and even that caused it to flare.

He couldn't escape from it. He'd torn his wrists raw with trying; his ankles were trickling warm blood down past his heels. The stress manifested as humidity; the air felt thick and muggy, like the air under a rainforest canopy or before a storm. He was sweating, licking dry lips to catch what moisture he could. He was so thirsty.

John whimpered as another tremor shook him under the uncaring gaze of his interrogator. His tormentor.

The man hadn't said a word since his first speech. He just stood there and watched, or left for a drink that he gulped down with relish in front of his bound prisoner. John did his best to ignore him, but when a trickle of water has escaped the man's mouth to run down his chin he hadn't been able to stop himself following it avidly, unable to look away.

Just one taste. That was all he could think of. Just one drop of water. He was burning alive.

_Tell me, Sheppard, if you found yourself burning alive... _

He groaned. _One_ torturing psychopath was enough thank you. He really didn't need to remember the whole Kolya incident, although on the plus side he now knew there some things that gave even a Wraith feeding a run for its money.

_...would you settle for just one drop of water... __or would you take more?_

Not that that was a good thing, of course.

He groaned again as another wave washed over him, making him feel as though he were being bathed in liquid fire. Just as soon as he was back in Atlantis, he told himself, he was going to buy that damn Wraith a beer. _Two_ beers. Anything that could go through an experience even _remotely_ like this deserved to get well and truly drunk for free. He could even almost forgive the feeding.

Almost.

o.O.o

The dip in the ground Lorne had seen resembled a moderately busy ant nest, with scurrying medical students, patrolling marines and team SGA-1 wandering about forlornly trying to discover something useful. Rodney had long ago attached himself to Dr Biro and her makeshift field lab, figuring this was the best way to catch any news and also because she had set up shop a reasonable distance away from the dip.

Pit. That was what it was really. A pit.

It was choked with dead bodies.

He had gagged and almost thrown up on his shoes when he first saw it, turning aside just at the last minute to spew on the yellow grass. The pit was as wide and deep as a decent-sized cottage; the bodies simply piled on each other and left to rot. A blanket of Pegasus-equivalent flies had risen when they got closer, buzzing angrily and almost blotting out the sun. Most of the corpses had been desiccated but a few were still liquefying, blackened, and slimy. The stench had been horrible.

No-one had said anything as Biro and her team started to work. No-one had really wanted to talk with a group of people who were about to confirm whether or not a man they all respected and cared for was rotting in that underground bone pile. Usually they wouldn't have even dared consider it, but the bundle of tattered evidence was currently in a plastic sealed bag next to Rodney's foot. He glanced down at it.

The most of the clothes were filthy and the shirt a barely recognisable mop of rags, but the wrist band and dog tags confirmed it. They were Sheppard's belongings, and they had been found strewn around and over one of the putrefying corpses in the pit, along with myriad other belongings that had been stripped of the dead as they were looted and deemed of no use.

Biro straightened beside him and he tensed, sensing that the woman finally seemed to have some results. Ronon and Teyla drifted over as well, their expression frighteningly intense.

"You found something." Ronon's tone made it a statement, not a question.

"Yes and no. We won't really know anything until we get the samples back to the labs. We need to check the DNA to be sure. " For DNA, of course, they weren't _stupid_, not even Caveman Conan. They knew about DNA. "I've been studying the decay rate of the bodies."

"And?" Rodney's voice was even blunter than Ronon's.

"Well, judging on what we have found..." Biro hesitated. Sheppard had been well-liked even by those of her profession. "The bodies match the decay rates of this planet. That is, they look as though they were dumped here while still fresh. Of course with all the alien contaminants in Pegasus it's hard to judge, but the date of death would be... about two or two and a half weeks ago."

Teyla made a small noise that was almost a sob, and he saw as Ronon laid a hand on her shoulder. It was a painful reminder that he was not the only one worried about Sheppard. The date almost directly corresponded to the date of Sheppard's disappearance.

Biro was quick to continue. "Of course this means nothing. It could well be a coincidence. Until we get the samples back and try to cross-match the DNA taken with the one have on file from Colonel Sheppard, we cannot be sure."

"Are there any... I mean." Rodney swallowed a surge of bile. "Do any of the bodies look like...?"

"The one we found his, his _possessions_ on was male. And it matched his general height and build." Biro gestured helplessly at the plastic bag. "As I said, we cannot be sure. Not yet."

"We understand," Teyla said composedly. "Thank you."

Rodney was silent. He didn't really feel like thanking anyone right now.

o.O.o

There was nothing but pain for John anymore. It was all-consuming. He ate everything; nerve endings, flesh, time, cognitive thought. It was hungry as the monsters that haunted his dreams – waking dreams now; sleep was a bird that had flown long ago – hungrier, maybe. It came and grinned with rotting teeth, then slammed a hand to his chest and drained him dry.

But he didn't die. It kept on and on, but he didn't die, it fed and fed and he still didn't die, it filled his nerves ending with molten lead and curdled his stomach to acid and burnt his eyes when the light struck them and thrummed through his bones in a song of agony and _he just wouldn't fucking die..._

There would be no bargaining this time, no miraculous escape. The pain didn't negotiate. It didn't owe him anything. It neither respected nor pitied him. It slouched in front of him and winked roguishly as it plunged icy hands into his body and picked out his innards, chomping on them while the blood run down its chin.

His throat was raw. He could remember screaming, but that had been the first thing the pain had taken – it had torn out his vocal cords, slurping them up in spaghetti-strings. He knew he was sitting in his own waste, because it could smell it, feel the clinging dampness under him. And he knew when he looked down that he was less than he had been before. His clothes clung tightly, glued with sweat, and the pain traced his ribs through the thin fabric of the pullover before plucking them out and chewing on them like candy canes. _Crunch-crunch-crunch. _

He'd lost count of the days here. There were eight pinpricks on his arm, but he'd forgotten what they meant.

"Friend. Wake up, friend."

Friend. _Friends._ No, he had no friends. His friends had gotten themselves drained to husks or blown to squishy chunks or just plain shot, top of their head blown off and the grey matter showing through like rotten calamari. No friends. Friends _died_. But...

Family.

He had family.

"Friend, you can stop this. Do you want this to stop? The pain? Do you want to sleep again?"

No sleep. The dreams here could kill you.

"Clean clothes, food, a place to lie down, to rest?"

Rest? He could rest. To lie down... to sooth the fire burning in his skull. To embrace the darkness finally and slip into sweet oblivion. Oh, _yes_. He could feel himself nodding slackly, eyes still closed for the comfort even their small shielding brought.

"I'm going to show you now, friend. Just so you know what it means. No pain."

He felt the hand on his arm but not the needle – the pain was already back and hovering over his abdomen with a possessive air, tracing a line over his liver. But it was fading – fading like a photo in harsh sunlight – and a cold was rushing down through his veins like a mountain stream, sweet and refreshing as ice in a desert. He felt a tear trickle down his cheek, brushed away by a smooth fingertip.

Things were coming back sharper. The air was cold and sharp, biting his skin in little nips, and it stank; sweat and fear mixed with the overpowering stench of urine. It brought him back faster than a basket of smelling salts.

"Do you see? Do you understand?"

He was _remembering_. He wasn't sure if he understood, yet. He could see... faces, reels of film through his head of cold stone covered in sweat and mud stuck with rotting leaves. He could see his past, and he opened his eyes to the present in order for understanding to take root.

A face smiled back at him. It was bland and pleasant and topped with brown hair clipped tidily short. "Are you ready to co-operate?"

Co-operate. Assist. Help. Lend a hand.

Give in.

No.

"Think of what I said. No more pain. Sleep. Clean clothes. Food. Water. Rest."

John's throat was still too raw to speak, perhaps too raw to breathe soon, but he managed to pull strength from a place he didn't even know he had and move his head from side-so-side in a slow shake. _No. _

The pleasant expression vanished, twisting into something only one inch away from animal; bared teeth and split flecking the man's chin as he raged and smacked John across the face. "Fool! Stupid, stubborn fool!"

He struck again, and afterwards, eyes feral and dark with anger. John barely felt the blows at all, although he could sense them driving him into the soothing black and welcomed it.

The man struck him once more, then ripped the cap off a syringe and pressed it too John's arm. He knew what was in it, could read his future in the orange liquid, and struggled. Struggled and whimpered through the tender meat tube that was his oesophagus now, begging with the devil for all the good it did.

The needle plunged into his flesh and set in on fire.

Soon after that the pain slouched back in, winking at him in a friendly fashion as it feasted on his lungs.

o.O.o

After a while the pain had eaten everything and he was left hollow, gutted, empty. The brown-haired man shouted at him, smacked his face, or punched his vacant chest but it was far away and didn't really matter very much – he floated above it on a sea of agony, barely even noticing through the waves of hurt that lapped him and filled the hollow left by the pain with burning salt water and acid.

John started to wonder whether it was worth the effort of breathing.

It was at that point he knew he was dieing.

o.O.o

Four more dots had been added to his arm when an angry voice filtered down through the raw orifices that had become his ears. Another voice alternately pleaded and stormed at it, like the call of an unknown bird.

"... close to a breakthrough, I'm _sure_ of it... I just need more _time_..."

"You have had time; more time than I would have granted any other, Aris." The reply was low and rumbling with irritation. "You had promised to have extracted all this man knows by the end of seven days – and now, more than twice that period later, he has still given you nothing."

"Chancellor." The word was respectful but flat, like M... like someone's voice when he was holding on to his patience with the skin of his teeth. "If I have not extracted anything from him then it is _highly_ doubtful anyone else will. Interrogation is a finely tuned art."

"Are you implying," the other asked with dripping poison from each syllable, "that I am incapable of understanding something so complex?"

"No, Chancellor." The other – Aris, the brown-haired man – was hasty in his apology. "But since you are, you will know how a, a _routine_ must be built between the prisoner and his questioner; promised consequences must be enforced if they are to be feared. Breaking this cycle of the questioning now is–"

"Regrettably necessary, thanks to the man's stubbornness." There was a pause, then the voice lowered. "Do not take this as a slight, Aris; it is obvious the man is highly trained, perhaps even brainwashed into obedience. No fault lies at your door for his silence. I simply cannot spare my best interrogator on one prisoner any longer. Orilk will take over, and you will be placed somewhere more useful. Let the man rot here, if he chooses."

A pause and a sigh. "As you wish Chancellor. But I will admit it galls me to leave a job half-done."

"The mark of a true craftsman," the Chancellor assured him. "Perhaps if Orilk is also unsuccessful you will have a second chance."

"Perhaps. Very well; I will gather my things."

Steely fingers wrapped themselves around John's chin, tilting his head up towards a gaunt face framed with neatly parted grey hair. The eyes were grey as well, dark, and harsh as granite. "Whoever you are, I would say goodbye to Aris now before he leaves. I doubt you will be alive by the time he returns." The fingers tilted him towards the brown-haired man, gathering things from the cabinet into a trim brown leather bag.

John was silent. The man was nothing. The Chancellor was nothing. The pain had leached meaning away.

The fingers were smooth and hard. If it weren't for the warmth in them they might as well have been dead metal. John shuddered, thinking of robots that remade themselves and killed without caring. Of a woman with dark hair whose last touches had been from lifeless hands.

"It is too late now," the grey-haired man said, releasing him. He stepped back and raked John's thin body with a cursory air. "You should have spoken."

John stared back blankly, body racked with small tremors that jangled his limbs like a skeletons bones in the wind. Like that planet on, on somewhere that began with _P_ and had trees almost like eucalyptus that the botanists had wanted to study until they found out the natives liked to lunch on tasty scientists. There had been bodies strung up on the forest edge, dancing on the wind as the breeze shook the treetops.

What was...? Doc was leaving. The straps were being undone. _What? _He was being dragged upright, with little grunts of disgust at the state his pants were in. The movement made him retch bile, the only thing left in his stomach. He had a vague recollection of water and some sort of mash being forced down his throat but most of it had come up again, tinged pink with blood from his abused vocal cords.

Movement. They were taking him somewhere. Home?

John landed on straw and hard stone, the impact jarring his spine. He lay limply, not bothering to wonder what was going to happen next. He was too tired.

The last thing he saw before his vision dimmed was the hazy beam of light from the window.

o.O.o

It was only the second time in two days that Ronon had been in the same general area as both McKay and Teyla. It wasn't that he was avoiding them – well, it _was_ partly because he was avoiding them but mostly it was because they were all just... busy.

Busy. Teyla was busy being scanned, meditating, and... just being _Teyla_, and of course Rodney was busy hobnobbing with a Wraith and trying to save the galaxy. Ronon hadn't given up on being able to shoot the thing; he might have despite Carter's orders if Sheppard hadn't pointed out rather sarcastically that being locked in a room with McKay all day was a fate _worse_ than death.

Sheppard. Death. Two words that had become disturbingly linked over the past two days.

That was why he was here. Normally he avoided this place like the plague; Ronon had seen enough death in his life without wanting to seek it out wherever he went. He knew how the Lanteans saw him – uncaring, unfeeling of anything except hatred and anger, indifferent to death. It was a lie he had built around himself, as much a mask as any worn at a Satedan summer carnival, built to hide weakness from his hunters. If he cried out, or lost it, even if they stayed dead and him alive, if they broke him... they would win. And he had sworn to himself on the memory of his dead wife and the souls of his dead team-mates and the ashes of his dead world that they would _never_ win.

It was harder now, though. It was not the Wraith that had kidnapped Sheppard, but humans. Humans had built the pit and filled it with bodies; humans had dumped Sheppard's BDUs and possessions on top of a heap of corpses like so much rubbish. It was harder to picture them as targets, even though he still did. Species was secondary to actions, and anyone who hurt his friends ranked with the Wraith on his to-kill list.

He didn't have many friends. He had to look after the ones he had.

That was why standing here, in this round room with the remnants of his shattered team on both sides of him and the woman who was in theory his boss in front, watching as Dr Biro stuttered and stammered and talked about gel electrophoresis and STRs and core loci before Rodney – whose temper was not to be tested at this particular point in time; the combination of trying to crack the nanite code whilst being constant contact with a life-sucking alien and worrying over Sheppard had shortened it to something approximately the same size as one of his own nanites – finally snapped. Ronon was actually surprised he'd lasted until the loci.

"Are you going to get to the point, or should I take a nap for the _next_ half-hour?"

Biro stammered and turned red. Ronon was unsympathetic. The woman had to have known she was the only person in the room that knew what she was talking about. The babbling had been pure self-indulgence. She glared daggers at McKay and opened her mouth to retort.

Carter saved everyone's pride from taking a dent. "McKay, that was uncalled for. Dr Biro, what was the conclusion from your testing?"

Biro shut her mouth, then opened it, although if looks could kill the one she shot McKay would have flashed him to cinders. "The tests were either negative or inconclusive. Based on that I would say it is very unlikely – although not impossible – that any of the bodies were of Colonel Sheppard."

Over Rodney's incredulous "It took you _half an hour_ to say that?" Carter asked "Unlikely?"

"Most of the DNA from the bodies was corrupted," Biro admitted. "The flesh was either too degraded or non-existent thanks to the decay rates of that particular planet; we had to use mitochondrial samples, or compare the teeth of the skeletons with Colonel Sheppard's dental records. Neither of those showed any matches, but thanks to the decay rate... and the alien bacteria in the samples... we cannot say for sure."

"So Colonel Sheppard...?" Carter couldn't seem to bring herself to finish. Ronon didn't really blame her.

"As I said, it is unlikely."

"Thank you." As Biro nodded back her thanks and started to gather her things Carter turned back to them. "Dr Zelenka has already copied the addresses from the P2X DHD; it shouldn't take long for him to give us a likely location. Until then he is asking you to be as patient as possible."

"Patient? _Patient_?" McKay was actually spluttering. "We've _been_ patient! We've been patient for two... for three weeks!" At any other time his outrage would have been funny. "If we carry on being patient then Sheppard really _will_ be dead when we find him – of old age!"

"He's doing his best," Carter said with a brittle edge to her voice.

"And if you'd taken my advice and let me do _mine_ we probably would have found him by now–"

Now that was news. McKay had requested being transferred from his save-the-galaxy nanite project? While Ronon didn't object to putting Sheppard above the rest of the Pegasus galaxy when it came to importance, the egotistical scientist was usually unreachable as soon as his eyes locked on a screen.

"... Told you we can't spare you right now." Carter was adamant. "There are already three people working on these addresses, _more_ than enough, and all of them are perfectly capable. We need you where you are."

McKay seemed about to launch into another furious attack before he suddenly deflated, the air almost literally seeming to huff out of him in invisible jets. In the light of the weird Lantean glows he looked infinitely older as he nodded silently and left without sparing any of them a glance.

Ronon glanced at Teyla, seeing her look right back at him. So that was it, then. More delay, more uncertainty, more hanging around until they had 'gate addresses and intel on suspect planets. McKay was right, if they waited any longer Sheppard really would be dead, and Ronon was sure it wouldn't be from anything as pleasant as old age. Fate was rarely so kind.

Which of course raised the question that had been nagging him ever since the burial pit...

If Sheppard died, would he stay on Atlantis?

o.O.o

He was sure the walls were soundproofed. Hell, from the looks of it they were made of stone blocks at least a metre thick, maybe more, so it was a decent enough guess. But he also thought they might be because apart from the occasional insect chirp from outside, he hadn't heard squat since he'd gotten here... wherever _here_ was.

There _had_ to be other prisoners. On the corridor from here to the interrogation chamber there had been doors every ten feet on either side, all sealed up tight with no peepholes or windows. Sure, some of them might be empty but all of them? Unless he was on the alien equivalent of a very fast Death Row, there had to be other people here. Maybe kidnapped offworlders like him, maybe just ordinary folk from nearby that happened to piss these people off. The enemy of his enemy...

John had entertained notions once of escaping – he wasn't sure exactly how, but most scenarios involved bashing Dopey over the head when the man came to bring his food – snatching some keys and freeing everyone else in this dump. Maybe start a full-scale rebellion, or even just a riot that would cover his own ass until they reached the outside and freedom.

Of course he had no idea where the Stargate was, or how to get there. But still, if he kept to the roads, not on them but just following them, surely they would lead to the 'gate eventually? Like all roads leading to Rome, even though that was a bunch of crap because hey, there was this little thing like an entire ocean in the way for some people...

Oh crap. Oceans. There might well be one between him and the 'gate, or at least a decent-sized lake, mountains, _anything_. John told himself to buck up and not be so miserable, that these people probably weren't past using _carts_ and they sure as hell couldn't fly. Sure they might be whizzes when it came to mind-shattering, agony-inducing drugs, but flying? No.

John was revisiting these thoughts of escape as he lay staring at the swollen, peeling door and the last of the said agony-inducing drug drained from his system. His joints ached, his throat hurt like hell and couldn't manage anything more than a croak, and his head was pounding a beat he would have danced to if he had been able to stand up at all, but all in all he felt a whole lot better than he had the day before. Enough for him to drink the water left for him, and sip some of the gruel without choking too much.

It still worried him that some of the things he remembered were so blurry – he couldn't precisely recall how long he'd been here or the exact details of his capture – but he knew he remembered the important stuff. He was Lt. Colonel John Sheppard, military commander of Atlantis and leader of SGA-1. He had a team coming for him (if a trifle on the late side): a woman called Teyla Emmagen, and two men called Ronon Dex and Rodney McKay.

And he was being interrogated... _tortured_. So he couldn't say any of this out loud. In fact, it was probably better if he didn't say anything at all.

He kept that in mind as the door opened and Dopey came in to haul him out. It was humiliating being dragged about like a doll from the arm of a psychopathic kid with acne problems, but try as he might he just couldn't summon the energy to fight back, or even wriggle much. Just enough for a clout around the head that made him want to spew.

It might have been fun to puke all down Dopey's leather armour, but he held himself back. He was starting to get nervous about how much weight he was losing. Throwing up what little he had eaten probably wouldn't help.

The trip was taking longer than usual. John blinked as they passed the hated door he had been _expecting_ to go through and carried right on, out of the corridor entirely and down another. What the hell? Maybe they'd just got sick of keeping him around and wanted to take him out back for a quick cigarette and a stare down the barrel of a gun.

It wasn't to be. They soon reached another door – this one plated with iron and speckled with what John sincerely hoped was rust – pushing through to a square stone room only slightly bigger than his cell had been, the walls lined with hooks. John couldn't repress a shudder when he saw what they held: whips, switches, branding irons, pliers. A ring in the centre of the ceiling had a long piece of rope dangling from it, and in the corner there was a rack with wrist and ankle restraints, and a small brazier filled with glowing coals.

_I'm screwed_.

No doubt about it. He wasn't sure thinking so would be tempting fate he might even think things couldn't get any worse. His guard twisted one of his arms around and held it locked, before reaching down for the waistband of his boxers. John yelped and squirmed, making him laugh before he pinched the skin on John's hip, then ran his palm down John's spine, a feat made difficult by his prisoner's constant attempts to land a good blow on any bit he could reach. Dopey laughed again and John's skin burned bright red.

Much to his surprise, Dopey didn't hang around to see the fun. He pulled John's arms up over his head and tied them together with the rough cord hanging from the ceiling ring, making sure he was stretched uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. He could feel his shoulder muscles protesting even as the guard stepped back to make sure he was properly secured, then left without a backwards glance.

That could mean one of three things. One was that Dopey was going to guard outside – unlikely, since he'd stayed to watch every other time before. He might be busy and have other things to do, but that was a bust as well because as with option one, he'd never had to do anything before except make sure John didn't wriggle free or go berserk.

Option three was that was going to happen next was making even a sadistic bastard like Dopey go all squeamish and have to leave the room.

Well, fuck.

The door opened again, this time to reveal a thickset man with huge muscular arms below a square head topped with mud-coloured thatch, clad in simple dark clothes and a heavy leather apron. As he got closer John could see his eyes were the colour of mud as well, a dull sludge brown like swampwater over a squashed nose. The guy looked like an ex-wrestler that had taken up blacksmithing, an impression reinforced by the tips of various tools poking from the apron pockets. Somehow John didn't think they were for making horseshoes.

_My day just gets better and better. _

John shifted his weight slightly. His shoulders were starting to burn, hell his whole _back_, and he'd only been up here for a minute or two. Since all the other sessions had lasted most of the day, he knew he was going to suffer for this later. The man glanced his way before going over to the wall dotted with all the hooks. John wriggled around in time to see him take down one of the switches.

_Oh yeah, better and better. _

The man walked back over to John, eyeing his strung-up body like a Thanksgiving turkey in a store. He stalked around him once, taking in the protruding ribs, the sores, the bruises and the needle marks still visible on the inside of his arm, before halting in front of John with the switch held loosely in his hand.

"I see Aris has been busy with you."

John said nothing. He'd decided he wasn't going to say squat until he saw his team, and he was sticking by that. It was easier and safer; he couldn't give any secrets by accident if he kept his mouth shut.

"Personally I think you're a fool," the man carried on conversationally, as though they were chatting over coffee in a quiet espresso bar. "If you had told us what you knew then you would've left this place by now, gone home. But you haven't, and now I have to finish the poison-man's job for him."

_Poison-man, eh? Suits him._ John eyed the switch warily as the other man – he decided on the name Grumpy – reached into his pocket and took out a sharp knife.

"Now, tell me your name."

Raising his chin defiantly, John shook his head.

An instant later a thin streak of pain burnt across his chest, making him jerk without thinking. Shit, but the man was _fast_. He'd been watching that switch, and he hadn't even seen it move.

He didn't look down to see the wound, but he knew where it was from the pain of it. Grumpy let him shudder for a moment before asking again "Your name."

He didn't bother shaking his head this time, concentrating everything on staying still when the switch hit him again. The damn thing must have been sharpened to a razor edge; he could feel something warm and sticky trickle down to the waistband of his boxers. Grumpy fired out his next two questions without falter, striking after each in rapid succession.

"What is your name?"

_Slash. _

"What is your name?"

_Slash. _

The last one caught John low on the belly, making him yelp despite his clenched jaw. He snapped his mouth shut furiously and glared at his tormentor. The man did not appear to notice.

"What is your name?"

_Slash. _

Grumpy carried on until John's chest and belly was hatched with searing lines, then walked around until he was facing John's back. The inevitable followed.

"What is your name?"

_Slash._

He felt the stripe burn from his right shoulder to the bottom of his left ribcage, splitting the skin over his spine. He swallowed bile and clung on to his pride with both bound hands.

"What is your name?"

_Slash._

After three more blows Grumpy started aiming for the back of his thighs, opening them with four quick strikes to each leg. Four more after those ensured John wouldn't be sitting down with any degree of comfort in the near future. He was sure the wounds were bleeding a little.

"What is your name?"

_Slash._

John yelped again. That one had been over the older ones near his shoulders, almost directly on top of the first. The trickle became a flood.

Grumpy walked around to the front again, taking something that looked absurdly like a plant-mister from his apron pocket. He regarded John thoughtfully before spraying whatever was in it over his chest.

Shit, _shit_ it hurt; like salt water on raw flesh which was probably what it was. Grumpy sprayed more of it over his abdomen as well, before doing the same to his back. It wasn't as bad as the itch Doc had given him, but that didn't mean much considering how bad the itch had _been_.

Grumpy paused behind him, asking again in a neutral tone.

"What is your name?"

John didn't even twitch.

_Slash._

o.O.o

By the time Grumpy was done with the switch Most of John's upper body looked as though it had been darned with red thread, the strokes tapering down almost like Zebra stripes to the back of his knees. Most hadn't broken the skin and they probably wouldn't scar, but they still hurt, especially with the fucking saltwater body wash Grumpy insisted on using every five minutes. If these people carried on like they were doing he wasn't going to have any healthy skin _left_.

After the switch Grumpy had picked up a whip, which had been so cliché John hadn't been able to stop from barking out a brief laugh. Honestly, this was starting to feel more and more like a cheap action flick, or maybe a scene from a bad fantasy book. The only thing that had stopped him from saying so was his inner vow of silence.

It was probably a good thing he hadn't included screams in that vow. He'd never been one to break promises, least of all to himself, and now wasn't really where he wanted to start.

Cliché or not the whip had fucking hurt; it wasn't a bullwhip (_no room_, John had guessed when he still cared about it) but something shorter and multi-tailed, made out of heavy knotted rope that managed to bruise and cut at the same time. Presumably a lot of thought had gone into making it, not that John gave a good goddamn either way.

Fortunately it hadn't lasted long – he'd passed out (_not_ fainted) quite soon after Grumpy started using it on him. The sting of salt water had brought him back, but his tormentor had spaced out the blows after that and stopped sooner than John had expected. Hell, maybe his hours were just shorter, who knew?

For whatever reason, Grumpy had left after using the whip-thing, leaving John to literally hang around. His arms were already falling asleep in a worrying way, his shoulders knotted almost like the whip-tails and burning horribly to match his wounds, his back muscles cramped. Not to mention that the rope was scratchy and chaffing, already leaving bright red rings like bracelets around his wrists.

Today had definitely not been one of the better ones of his life.

He recited taxing and takeoff procedures mentally to pass the time, then all the songs he could remember from childhood hymns he'd sung at school to football chants he'd never sung in polite company, at least not while sober. Not that thinking the words really hard was singing, or the company around him polite. Or maybe it was, who knew? Maybe the people on this rock considered torturers and their little helpers the cream of society. He pictured Dopey in a suit and tie, perhaps sipping cocktails like dad at one of his company parties, and snorted weakly.

He hadn't thought about dad in a long time. Patrick Sheppard had mapped his eldest son's future for him almost from the cradle; John had gone to the best kindergarten, elementary and high school money could buy, with his father's eye fixed firmly on a business course, a pretty wife, and a suitable heir to his company. When he'd found out his son had scored enough in his IQ tests for a membership to MENSA, the older man had been ecstatic.

Less so his son. Business and finance interested John about as much as sawing his leg off at the knee, and MENSA meant nothing to him. He had no desire to run companies or become rich. His heart and soul was in the air, flying with the hawks that occasionally rode the thermals near their ranch house.

So after the high school summer ball in his last year he'd come home, packed his bags and driven into town in the pickup he'd brought with money he'd earned at the gas station. Then he'd walked to the nearest recruitment office and applied for the Academy.

He'd gotten in.

In all four years of his training his father had never once called him, or written a letter. David had sent a brief note of congratulations when he graduated, but that had been all and John hadn't replied. Then he'd been off and away in the USAF, and that had been that. The only message John had ever received was after his black mark from Afghanistan; a terse letter suggesting that he quit the Air Force and return home – as though he was a teenager who'd goofed up in trying to be independent, and his father was some weary but benevolent patriarch offering open arms to his prodigal son.

He wondered what his dad was doing right now, whether he ever though of John, or whether he had purged his son from his heart completely. He wondered if his father would care that he was in charge of an alien base, or whether he'd just draw up a list of all the times John had made a mistake or gotten himself in trouble and say: _Look at all this, look how badly you did, it's better you should come home and forget this nonsense. _

Occasionally he wondered if his father might not be right.

John bit his lip and groaned, shuddering against this idea even as his back muscles started to spasm faintly. No, he refused to believe that. He was happy where he was, even with the physical and mental scars. His adopted family was worth more to him than any blood relations he had, so much more. He'd made mistakes all right, and if he could he'd wind back time to change them...

_But would I change them?_

His breath caught in his throat. He'd always told himself of course he'd change things if he could. He'd force Carson not to operate on Watson, stop Elizabeth coming with them to Asuras, stop Ford from sacrificing himself on the Hiveship; he'd go straight for the Keeper and save Sumner, he'd do things different and save Holland and...

_But..._

Carson, sure; there was _nothing_ about what had happened that Sunday that was good. No argument there. _But..._

If Ford hadn't sacrificed himself they might all have been killed; he'd accepted it as his duty to hold off the Wraith while John and his team escaped. If Elizabeth hadn't come with them there would have been no-one to stop the Asurans, leaving them trapped and most likely dead. If he hadn't shot Sumner the man might still be in charge now, and John was sure Atlantis would be a whole lot worse off under his command; he would never have let Teyla or Ronon join, or let Rodney go offworld. If they had even survived that long.

If he hadn't earned that black mark in Afghanistan he'd never have been posted to Antarctica, never have met General O'Neill, never sat in a command chair or gone to Atlantis or met Rodney and Teyla and Ronon...

_All their deaths... they had helped him. Set him on the path to acceptance, friendship. His team. _

He swallowed past his raw throat, whimpered a denial. He _would_ go back, he would save them... he _would_...

_And die. Or stay as a major until the Wraith caught up with him. Or stay as a pilot and never know he could be anything else. _

And Teyla would have continued as leader of her people, until she ran the wrong way during a culling. Ronon would have remained a Runner, until one day he just couldn't run anymore.

And all the times he'd covered Rodney's back – what of them?

_All dead. _

_The cost of his family had been the lives of others._

He would still go back to save those he'd lost. But in the depths of his mind he wondered if he would regret it afterwards.


	4. Breaking and Being Broken: Chapter 3

Mega thanks and cookies to everyone who has reviewed so far. They are bright beams of sunlight in an otherwise dull existence :)

* * *

John had no sense of time left, or any idea of how long he had been hanging from the ceiling by his wrists

John had no sense of time left, or any idea of how long he had been hanging from the ceiling by his wrists. His shoulders and back were twisted around and through each other in agonising cords, the muscles of his upper arms beaded in rigid clumps. His body was covered in sweat, a paradox to his bone-dry mouth, and his back had cramped into something as tight and stiff as one of his own surfboards. Every breath he inhaled put stress on his injured ribs and stretched the whip-and-switch-wounds, causing the deeper ones to crack and bleed.

At first he had tried to support his weight on the balls of his feet, or balance on his tip-toes to slacken the rope. But fatigue had sapped his strength slowly, pulling him steadily down, until eventually he had given up and decided to simply wait until his arms went to sleep.

He wasn't sure how long ago that had been. He was starting to think it hadn't been one of his brighter ideas.

John's head jerked as the door opened, his neck muscles seizing up slightly at the movement. Grumpy walked in, his face a picture of indifference to John's suffering, his right hand holding a sagging skin bag that sloshed as he stepped up to his prisoner and seized hold of his chin. John flinched automatically, but all the man did was bring the skin up and empty the contents – about half a litre of stale-tasting water – into his mouth. He gulped down the liquid gratefully, not caring about the unpleasant flavour.

Grumpy waited until the skin was half-empty, then snatched it back and dangled it in front of John's eyes.

"You want this?"

He licked droplets off his lips and eyed the bag, but said nothing. He wasn't about to give his tormentor the satisfaction of seeing him beg.

"You know how you can get it."

_Fuck you. _John didn't say it aloud, but he knew it was clear in every line in his body, twisted and stretched out as it was.

Grumpy didn't waste time trying to persuade him, but picked up the knotted whip again. John tensed in readiness.

The second time around was even worse than the first; the strikes opened up the ones from the day before, meaning twice the pain per blow as a good deal more blood loss to boot. Grumpy didn't even bother asking questions between hits this time, but lathered himself up to a faint sweat before pausing and asking John if he was ready for it to stop yet.

_Of course I'm ready you fucking sadist_, John snarled mentally. Outwardly he didn't even show he'd heard the question.

Grumpy carried on until John's vision started to grey at the edges, before setting the whip aside and picking up the switch again. But this time, instead of aiming for John's back or legs, he grabbed one of his ankles and pulled his foot up with the sole facing outwards. John closed his eyes, dreading what he knew was going to happen next.

"This stops whenever you want it to," he heard Grumpy say, a surprisingly normal voice for a man he hated so much. He didn't reply.

The first blow drew blood, as did most of the ones after – the skin on his soles was so much thinner than on his body or legs. It was much more sensitive as well, something he had cause to reflect on as he squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt. He hoped to hell the man wasn't about to–

Salt water seared his foot, making him grunt against the barrier of his closed jaw. He felt Grumpy picking up his other ankle, and kicked out as hard as he could.

It was a wasted effort. His leg jerked slightly but nothing more; Grumpy had too good a grip and was a sight stronger than John at the moment, not to mention better fed. He gritted his teeth and steeled himself as the switched whistled down yet again.

By the end his foot soles looked like hamburger mix and he still hadn't said a word; Grumpy rubbed in his saltwater mix with malicious glee at John's pale face and wiped the bloody switch on a cloth. John ignored his smirk and tried to concentrate on breathing.

"Stubborn, aren't you?"

_Took you long enough to notice, dumbass. _

"Never mind. I'm sure I can think of something else."

_I was afraid of that. _

Grumpy finished wiping the switch down, carefully replacing it on one of the wall hooks before taking down one of the brands – a long, straight one vaguely like a poker. John's breath froze in his lungs as it was thrust into the brazier.

_Ah shit, not that. Why that?_

On the same list as bugs, clowns, Wraith Queens and Rodney on caffeine overloads was getting burnt by things. Sharp things cut clean and healed the same way but burns – those _lasted_. He still had a splotch on the web between his thumb and first finger from a coffee spill three years ago. And they _hurt_.

Grumpy pulled out the brand and turned, smirking evilly. John panicked.

He wriggled. He kicked. He dodged. He struggled so much the blood started running down from his torn wrists in rivers, streaking his arms with red, his ribs aching almost as much as the cramping muscles in his back. And all to no avail, since Grumpy just balled one hand into a fist and started hitting John with it anyway.

He fought back as much as he could, but it wasn't nearly enough and he was beaten into submission long before he could do any damage. Then Grumpy grabbed his arm, and struck.

The sizzle of burning flesh came long before the pain or John's muffled scream. Jesus fucking _Christ_ on a _bike_, he'd actually forgotten how much being burnt hurt. And there was always that pause, just between the touch and the pain, like freezing. The heat was so hot it was _cold_.

_Don't forget you just lost some of the skin in your armpit. Although that's kinda hard to forget._

A hiss and a sizzle behind him made John jump, but Grumpy was just heating up the rod again. _Oh, 'just' he says!_

The torturer picked up the brand again and walked in front of John, eyeing him up and down. The tip of the rod, glowing an angry red, hovered over his collarbone, then down his left side, then near his hip and up again. Grumpy saw him tense as the hot metal passed close enough to singe his chest hairs, and smiled.

"You are a strong man, stranger. But even strong men can be weak about some things." He brought up the rod to linger near the inside of John's twisted elbows. "Do you know what happens when a burn occurs near the joint of an arm or leg? The scars draw up as they heal and cripple the limb, sometimes for good. It depends how deep the wound is."

He let the brand drop down to John's knees. "I imagine a one-legged man would find it quite difficult to work."

John's answer was a curled lip and an inward shudder. Keller would probably – maybe – fix any scarring he might get but if it was infected...

Damn it. He should start to pay attention during briefings. Then he'd _know_ if he could be fixed should the worse happen.

Grumpy touched the tip of the poker to John's thigh, making him jerk at the little stab of pain. It left a spot no bigger than an insect bite – well, a normal insect bite. That fucking steroid-eating Iratus tick left a bit of a bigger mark...

"Pay attention, stranger. Do you want me to cripple you?"

He did the only possible thing he had left to do to the voice.

He ignored it.

"Silence lets me choose my own answer, stranger."

The brand touched against his thigh again, pressing down harder than before, making John yell through clenched teeth. Fuck, _fuck_...

"All you have to do is say you'll answer my questions."

His abdomen, and this time he _did_ scream. The puckered red mark cut through one of the scars from the switch, like a break in a straight road. Or a bridge over a river of blood.

_Keller can heal me. No matter what they do. I know. _

The brand touched the back of his knees. Burn, sizzle, pain. Scream.

_I know I know I know. _

"You can stop this."

Burn. His hip. No sizzle this time. Still pain. The scream was louder.

"Anytime you want."

The hollow under his ribcage.

"Just tell me your name."

Down one shoulder in a thick red line.

His throat was starting to go raw again. But he hadn't said a word.

"Just your name."

In the centre of his chest now, pressing and pressing, like feeding but they wouldn't allow him to die, he just _couldn't freaking die..._

Blackness.

o.O.o

When John opened his eyes again he was still hanging from his wrists in the torture room, but it was empty. The brand was hanging back up and brazier was a banked glow, the only light in the room spilling from its burning embers, and it was cold. He could feel every burn, every whip-cut and switch-mark on his skin, and those weren't cold. They were burning like the muscles in his arms and back.

_What was it you thought, Johnny? That after Kolya and the Queens nothing could ever be as bad?_

He groaned softly, hardly stirring the air with the pathetically weak sound. It seemed like Pegasus was dead set – ha, _dead_ set – on teaching him things the hard way.

He was thirsty. It was probably all the screaming, or perhaps the copious sweating from fear and pain. His mouth was crying for moisture, any moisture. He'd even settle for something out of Zelenka's still, which was rumoured to have been brewed out of old boots and could dissolve spoons and might make a good weapon against the Wraith one day, if the space vampires were ever mad enough to drink it.

Didn't look like he was about to get any water, though. And morning was a long way off...

The door creaked open, making him jump. _Oh no, freaking hell no._ It wasn't fair. It wasn't _fair_. They'd always left him alone at night before!

_Well, what did you expect, Johnny-boy? Did you sign a contract somewhere saying you'd get a good night's sleep?_

He hated his brain. His brain was supposed to _support_ him. Being sarcastic at him was McKay's job...

"Hello again, stranger. Did you enjoy your rest?"

John said nothing, determinedly not looking towards the brazier as Grumpy hung up a lantern on a spare hook. The light made his pupils contract painfully, but he said nothing about that either.

"I was hoping we might have to wake you up," Grumpy said with a leer that made John's blood run cold. "Ah well, never mind. You'll be pleased to know we have something new for you today..."

He heard footsteps behind him, and risked a peek under one arm. Dopey and his friend, the gap-toothed fellow with the buzz cut, had just come in. His old guard (_had he almost thought 'buddy'?_) invaded John's personal space in order to reach up and free his wrists from the ceiling cord.

John's arms dropped, the burning pain shooting back up to his shoulders, replaced by a blissful numbness. The relief was so great he almost cried.

It was short-lived. Dopey wrenched his arms behind him in a locked grip, then frog-marched him to the rack in the corner, Buzz Cut following close behind. Up close John could see it wasn't a rack for stretching, just a wooden framework with leather straps at each corner, like a bed with no mattress. Next to it Grumpy was filling up a bucket of water from a facet in the wall.

_Oh. Fuck._ John's heart sank. Racks combined with buckets of water were never good news, especially when a square of thin cloth – he could see Grumpy pulling it out of his apron pocket – was thrown into the mixture. His imagination was doing overtime throwing up various nasty scenarios for him to muse upon.

As Dopey started to push him down on the rack, John panicked and snapped. He'd had _enough_ of this shit, he couldn't _deal_ with it any more, he wanted _out_. He bucked and threw punches left and right, kicking out at anything in his way and biting anything soft. Grumpy shook his head in amusement, as though watching a toddler having a very small temper tantrum, while Dopey and his associate grabbed John by the arms and legs and forced him to lie down, ignoring the blows that landed on their torsos and legs. He might as well have been fighting with a pair of boulders for all the good he was doing...

Buzz Cut tied his wrists over his head and stretched his ankles down before leaving, but Dopey stayed, tangling meaty fingers in John's hair in order to pull his head back roughly and let Grumpy drape his oversized hankie over John's face. The thin cloth allowed him to breath easily enough, although he had a feeling that was about to change. John shifted uncomfortably. The rack was at an angle, tilting his feet higher than his head, putting weight on his sore back and fresh wounds.

He heard the splashing sound of something being dipped in water, then Grumpy's voice near the top of the rack. "You won't be able to speak while we do this, so if you would like to give us any information at any point please open and close your right fist three times."

Only his vow of silence stopped John from snarling a brief sentence on his tormentor's parentage and personal habits. Then there was a brief pause, like a held breath before diving into a pool, and the water hit him in the face.

The cloth soaked it up instantly, turning into something resembling a facehugger from an _Alien_ movie and incidentally cutting off all of his air. He drew a choked breath inwards, sucked in nothing but a small amount of water that tasted of cheap dye, and started to cough convulsively. With each indrawn breath the hankie clung tighter, pressed down as well by the steady flow of water from above. John thrashed and pulled at the bindings, stifling under the suffocating cloth, but nothing helped. Only when he thought he might start seeing stars without benefit of a window did the water soaking the cloth stop.

It was a little easier to breathe then, the wet hankie better able to pull away from his face, but it didn't last. The second lot of water started to pour, and the cloth immediately plastered itself back down, clinging to John like second skin. This time he tried to cheat the system by holding his breath, but Dopey – he assumed it was by the shift of the hand still in his hair – leant over and punched him in the stomach with his spare fist.

What breath John had left whooshed out in one go, to be replaced with... nothing...

He bucked desperately, shaking his head to avoid the jet pouring on to his face and losing a good deal of hair to Dopey's fist in the process. The tearing pain only served to sharpen his focus, but it did no good. The guard simply grabbed another handful and his chin as well, forcing his face upwards into the onslaught. John sucked desperately, trying to draw air through the cloth by willpower alone.

Nothing came through. The slimy, cold dampness was pressed down too hard, and he felt his chest start to ache, his lungs crying for air to fill what felt like a vacuum that had bloomed over his heart. Logic told him it wasn't possible for a void to have opened up inside him. His body told him it _was_ possible, and it _was_ happening, and if he didn't stop it soon it would be goodbye brain cells, hello the life of a vegetable. If he didn't die first.

John thrashed again, his movements erratic and uncoordinated but powerful with fear. He pulled, twisted, and arched futilely upwards, feeling skin tear around the thick leather straps restraining him but refusing to give up. A sharp _pop_ accompanied by a sickening pain to his left shoulder made him yell behind the stifling cloth over his face, and he heard Grumpy curse. Sounded like he'd dislocated it.

The water stopped, and Dopey let go of his hair. Fleshy hands encircled his left arm, before pulling sharply downwards. John screamed in agony as the ball-and-socket joint came back together with a vile squishing sound. The limb still throbbed horribly, even if it was technically healed.

A hard fist clouted him around the head. "Don't try that again."

He never got a chance to. A heavy weight pushed his chest down until his spine was pressed into the wooden boards, squeezing out any remaining air in his lungs. It felt as though Dopey had sat on him, which was probably what had happened. The hand that gripped his hair again was different, calloused and rough as leather, pulling upwards until John could feel tears in the corners of his eyes.

Then the water came back, and he breathed only nothingness.

o.O.o

Incense coiled in white strings towards the sky, seeking freedom she could not afford to possess.

The stick of marra resin burning in her carved bone holder was the last Teyla had, a sticky amber rod tinted faintly with red that smelt sharply of the yellow fruits Dr McKay was so deathly afraid of. It had always calmed and refreshed her, reminding her of her father, Tagan, who had used it as well after long days, which was why Halling had given it to her on her last visit to her people.

Her last visit before their disappearance. Her last visit before her world fell apart.

Everyone was being very sympathetic and understanding and she hated them for it even as she knew that if their positions had been reversed she would do and say exactly as they did and said. But none of them, save for maybe Dr Carter and Colonel Sheppard, understood truly.

She was _leader_. They had been _her_ responsibility. Whatever happened to them, whatever ills or woes, it was _her fault_. She should have been there, leading as her father had... not gallivanting around the galaxy as a glorified envoy from the Ancestor City. She knew her presence in Colonel Sheppard's team was almost indispensable, but he did not truly _need_ her. Not as her people did.

She had always told herself before that she was helping them more by staying and assisting the Lanteans in defeating the Wraith. Everyone else had agreed, even her people. It had, after all, made sense. In ending the threat of cullings once and for all she would save uncounted unborn children from feedings, not to mention those that still lived in fear of white beams from the sky. It had been a noble ideal, self-sacrificing, altruistic...

_Selfish. _

_She_ would save them. _She_ would receive the accolades, the praises, the honours, the songs. They would hail her name for seven generations; carve into stone so it would never be forgotten. And she would _let_ them.

Teyla breathed in. And out.

The realisation of her selfishness in the long days since her fatal discovery on New Athos had been truly shocking, like discovering a lovely fruit with a wormy core. But even more shocking had been what she had discovered underneath.

_Need. _

Not need for praise. She had never truly _needed_ that; only to do what was best for her own. Praise was incidental, letting her know she had done well, made the right the decisions. But there were different sorts of needs.

_Family. _

She had been very young when her father had been taken. Halling and the other had done the best they could, but it could never have been enough. She had no siblings, and her only close friend had been Kanaan, who shared her losses. Up until very recently, she had had no children, either – and for an Athosian that was very unusual. Most in Pegasus married early, driven by fear of cullings and need to build up population, but the leadership of her people had demanded her full attention and she had not felt it fair – before – to demand her child should share her consideration with so many others.

Now though...

She had never had a brother, but Ronon Dex was even closer to her than that. She had never had a true peer, but John Sheppard had known and shared from the first the burdens of command. Even Rodney McKay had been absorbed into her little tight-knit group; she knew her protectiveness of him bordered on the maternal sometimes, that no matter how irritating or exasperating he could be that would never change.

What's more, she knew each and every one of them felt the same way about her.

They were a team. _The_ team. And now that team was broken. Shattered, because its nexus – the one who held it together with an easy smile and loyalty cast in steel – was gone. Not dead but _missing_.

Like her people.

_Missing_ was crueller than dead. _Missing_ let you worry. _Missing_ stopped you from mourning, led you on with false hope. She remembered Jasa, the mother of Davin who had gone through the 'gate one day to trade and never returned. Despite the passing years she still lit candles in a little lantern outside her door, in case her son needed to be guided home.

_Missing_ was a Wraith that sucked you dry, draining you until all you had left was tattered hope and desperate searches and rumours whispered like the tag-ends of summer breezes.

And then it drained you further, until all you had left were candles...

o.O.o

_Needair needair needair needair..._

The water stopped; John blew out and inhaled several greedy gulps of air before another torrent – he'd forgotten how many he'd endured so far, lost count – drenched his face again and sent him back to the frantic mantra.

_Needair needair needair needair..._

He could feel his ears starting to chime, a tinny sound like stretched wire he wasn't sure was a hallucination caused by lack of oxygen or his own heartbeat made loud behind his eardrums. It was better to listen to than the splashing sound of the water drowning him; he was sure that he was going to have a serious phobia of showers if he ever got out of this.

_Oh, so they might _not_ come for you Johnny-boy? _

_They will_, he snarled back at the niggling little voice that sounded ridiculously like an uncle he'd had, a brother of his father's that disliked him intensely for reasons unknown and whose acidic remarks rivalled even those of McKay. _They're just, just a bit delayed..._

Uncle Mat gave an ugly laugh. _Just a bit delayed, Johnny-boy? Just a bit on the tardy side? If they don't get their asses in gear soon it won't be just _them_ that's late, you understand me kid?_

_Shut up_, he retorted, then screamed breathlessly as a fist sank into his stomach and voice bellowed in frustration "_Speak_, damn you! Tell us who you are!"

John shivered and gasped; the thing material over his face pulled close with each indrawn breath, still damp enough to semi-block his airways. _In out in_, but he couldn't concentrate because they kept hitting him, punching his ribs and slapping his face so hard he was starting to see stars. Darkness crept to the edges of his vision, and he welcomed it. He was so tired.

A wallop around his ears woke him up at once, besides making the former ring like church bells. "Get up! Get up!" There were hands yanking at his restraints, ripping them open and hauling him upright. The cloth was pulled from his face, making him blink in the piercing lantern-light. "Get up!"

He did so, half hanging from a meaty fist – Dopey's, from the silhouette he could make out through streams of pained tears – but any effort he made was wasted when a knockout blow sent him sprawling. His head hit the stone floor with a _crack_, and the stars swallowed his vision.

John lay on the frozen rock, feeling the darkness bleed in through the back of his skull. It didn't take long for it to engulf what was left of his mind.

o.O.o

When he woke he was still lying in the middle of the torture room, curled in a comma shape with his wrists tied tightly behind him and his ankles bound together. The back of his head felt wet and sticky, and no-one had seen fit to return his clothes. His boxers did next to nothing of use when it came to keeping out the chill, letting shivers play with his body as much as they wanted.

He caught a picture of himself, mostly naked, skinny as a rake, tied like a turkey, covered in red scars and sores, with splotchy burn marks dappling his skin like plague spots, his face and chest still damp from the water torture and the back of his head sticky with blood. The image was so pathetic he chuckled weakly. It looked like a skeleton with a strange sense of modesty and questionable mental health.

The door opened behind him (they must have a thing about keeping him from seeing them enter, he thought half-hysterically) with a squeak that cut through his living brain like a saw, and two sets of boots stomped towards him. He was pulled over on to his back, his bound wrists trapped uncomfortably between his protruding backbone and the scraping stone floor, to look up into one of the two faces he had really been hoping not to see.

Even if he had been willing to speak he couldn't have; his throat felt as though it had been stuffed with sand, but the look on his face must have said it all because Dopey grinned at him, all yellow teeth and bristling stubble. He leant close, bringing up his hand so swiftly John automatically flinched from the expected blow.

Dopey's grin widened in something like triumph, but the clout never fell. Instead he wrapped his fingers around John's chin, the other hand coming up to his forehead and pushing John's head back painfully.

_What the freaking hell..._ The unspoken question was soon answered by Buzz Cut, who appeared in John's line of vision bearing a rusty bowl and a pot-metal spoon. A rich, milky aroma assaulted John's nostrils, making his stomach growl. Buzz Cut grinned as well, although the gaps in his teeth made him look almost comical, rather than menacing as his companion.

Comical or not he was efficient about his work; spooning what tasted like milky porridge into John's mouth quickly. It was bland and cloying, making him gag as it hit the back of his trachea until he managed to swallow it with his mouth still held open. The bowl was a small one, but John's shrunken stomach was filled by the time it was empty. Buzz Cut paused to let him gulp hollowly a few more times, before unclipping a water bottle from his belt and emptying its contents down John's throat. He spluttered and choked, struggling a little – and uselessly – in panic, but Dopey had a good grip on him and the water joined the porridge soon enough.

Buzz Cut backed off then, and Dopey let go. John's head snapped back at once, his whole neck aching. Screw his neck, his whole body ached. He'd never wished more for a mattress and a soft pillow in his life.

A tickle on his neck made him shake irritably, thinking it was fleas or whatever they called their blood-sucking bedbugs here. When it persisted he craned his neck to knock off whatever creepy-crawly had taken a liking to him, and froze.

The creepy-crawly was Dopey.

The guard traced down over John's bare shoulder lightly, then his arm. More than a little freaked out, John tried to squirm away, only to have himself pinned again with one muscular hand while the other trailed down to is ribs, which were protruding so much they looked as though they might tear out at any minute, over his abdomen and down, resting on the sensitive skin above his hip.

"Orilk left you for us tonight," Dopey whispered, his eyes oddly intense, fingers pinching the skin hard. He laughed as John froze in sudden apprehension. "Pity he left it too late. You're too skinny now for anything good."

John tried not to show how relieved he was. He was sure he could take whatever they threw at him, but that didn't mean he _wanted_ to.

"Such a waste," Dopey said almost contemplatively, before punching John in the ribs.

The blow was hard enough to send John scooting across the stone, scraping what skin he had left that wasn't already scarred or burnt. Buzz Cut joined in, smirking viciously as he smashed his foot into one of John's knees. All he got for his pains – and John's, which were considerably more painful – was a grunt and a filthy look. It drove him to higher attempts; a fist in the belly and a backhand across the face.

This sparked off what could only be called a feeding frenzy of blows, kicks, slaps, and punches, until John's head was reeling dizzily, his skin screaming at him. When they tired of the beating they pulled him up to his knees and told him to keep himself straight, then leant against the wall to watch him.

He tried. He really did. He didn't want to bend his back in front of these goons. But even with the gruel in his stomach and the fresh water he was still woozy and tired, his muscles weak from days – weeks – spent hanging up or being strapped down. Eventually he wilted slightly, his chin dropping down to touch his chest.

A stick smacked across his back painfully, jerking him up again. He heard Dopey laugh behind him. "Stay up, stranger."

_Fuck you! _The words fought their way up his windpipe and oozed out of his skin in silent defiance. If it hadn't been for the bonds around his limbs he would have flown at his tormentors, outnumbered or not. But he knew that if he did now all he would achieve would be a very embarrassing flop onto his stomach.

John straightened up again, and held his head up high.

o.O.o

_Stay up stay up stay up stay upstayupstay..._

His head was drawn irresistibly downwards, seeming to weight as much as a neutron star. Every second it spent up it got heavier, until the neutron star was being drawn into a black hole, the black hole into a another black hole, everything into a space-time rip consuming the universe _STAY UP!_

He heard someone... dwarf... Dummy? Dopey. Laughing. Like he was at a circus watching clowns... no, not funny, clowns, not fun... smiled. Smiled too much, wore mask, what were they thinking? Were they smiling underneath or full of hate, loathing the ones that watched, ready to bite with sharp, sharp teeth and "Pathetic. Barely lasted a turn."

His cheek was cool. Scratchy. Like stone but... he was lying down? No! Never lie down, _never_...

Pain. He should be used to that by now, but he couldn't ever be. A stick over his shoulders, hard enough to bruise. Bruises everywhere. Like the stick. Sticks. Teyla. Had he done something wrong?

"Why...?" It was little more than a sigh. Why was she angry? Why was she hurting him? Why... no. Not Teyla. Men's voices. Talking. About him.

Talking. He had talked. _No, no, no..._

Hot breath by his ear. "Because we want to."

Other voice. Rougher. "Don't think he heard you."

A snort. "Leave him. He's no good anymore. Orilk will be here in a few turns."

Footsteps, leaving him... No! Don't leave! He could feel his cheeks growing wet as they ignored his crying._ I'll talk! I talked! Don't leave me! Don't leave me here for _them_!_

But they were them... weren't they?

_I can't do this..._

But he had to.

o.O.o

John didn't know how long he slept, obscured in pain so dreary and continuous it warmed him like a blanket of stinging wool. When he woke it was to the sounds of Grumpy coming in, his boots cheerfully loud on the cold floor, looking refreshed.

"Enjoy your night, stranger?"

He stared blankly, trying to understand the question but failing. In the world beneath the pain-blanket, there was no enjoyment, no day or night. There was simply hurt, loneliness, and the things which produced them.

No before. No after. His existence was only real _here_; outside had no more meaning for him. There was nothing left for him there.

They hadn't come for him.

Unperturbed, the torturer untied him and hung his limp body back up from the ceiling hook, then picked up one of the brands. Dopey sidled in, his expression gleeful.

"Now, where did we leave off...?"

o.O.o

There was more blood this time. After the burning there were knives. Hooked knives, straight knives, saw-bladed, double-edged, stiletto, big, small, sharp, blunt. He felt them all, cold-hot, a thin line of pain and then redness, rusty rivers finding new courses to the sea on the floor.

He fainted seven times. He knew that, because he counted.

After the knives, there were pinching things, like pliers only not. Pliers with teeth. He watched expressionless as more red appeared on his skin, little crimson droplets that melted like ruby tears weeping for poor John Sheppard.

_Poor Johnny,_ Uncle Mat said from his leather armchair. _Poor Johnny. _

Poor little lost John. The Sheppard whose sheep had run away.

_Poor Johnny._

o.O.o

After a while they tired of the game and had lunch, chewing on bread and meat in front of him, slurping down something clear and sweet-smelling with enjoyment, watching him watch and laughing.

"You want some?" Grumpy said, dangling a hunk of raw meat in the air. It glistened greyish, with white streaks like marble. "Here."

He dropped it on the floor, splattering the sea of red. John saw its sides blush crimson, tacky fluid clinging to it as Grumpy picked it up again and shoved it in his mouth. "Here!"

It tasted of death and dust, and it choked him, but he swallowed every last bit. The torturer smiled and patted his cheek.

"Good boy."

John licked his blood off his lips, and wanted more.

o.O.o

"No. You can't."

Sam winced at the anguish thrumming in the air, breaking the words of the man in front of her to glass-sharp shards that stabbed her soul. She tried reason, having nothing left to offer. "Rodney, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But it's been a month and... There hasn't been anything since P2X-118. The IOA–"

"_Screw_ the IOA!" Rodney's face had turned red, veined with purple. She was honestly afraid he was going to give himself a heart attack. "The IOA is not _here_! We _are_! And... And so is Sheppard and... We're not going to just _give up_..."

"It's not giving up," she lied. When had she become so good at lying? "We're just reducing the searches–"

_He said Teal'c would die. I didn't believe him either. _

"_Halving_ them."

_Forty-eight hours. _

"There will still be teams sent out–"

_Deadline. The line you cross when you die. _

"_Five_ teams. In the whole _galaxy_. Do Americans know about needles in haystacks?"

_I told him to go suck a lemon. What will he say to me now? _

"Rodney, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But there's nothing more we can do. Nothing more _I_ can do."

_How has it come to this?_

His eyes went cold. "You could say no."

o.O.o

He dangled from useless, floppy limbs, watching from flesh-pits hollowed in burning clay, holes poked by some curious youngster to a half-finished mud man, an unformed thing of dirt and straw and moulding cloth, discarded after a long playtime.

Sometimes the clay was peeled back and the damp underside showed, leaking ochre fluid, but that didn't matter. Dirt wasn't important. When dolls screamed no-one cared.

_Oh dear, did you break it? Never mind, I'll buy you another. _

Brats stamped and shouted until grown-ups came. Then they got you another toy.

_Just throw that old thing out, there's a good boy. _

No-one cares about the old dolls. Maybe somewhere there was a big pile of them, all heaped and covered in mould, a thousand blank eyes watching the ground shiver, a thousand artificial hands reaching up to clutch the sky.

"He's too warm. Have you given him water today?"

_Oh dear, did you break it? Never mind, I'll buy you another. _

"Who cares? Let him suffer. The bastard hasn't the sense when to quit."

_Dirt wasn't important._

_Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. _He would let the fire inside his ochre centre burn him away to cinders and smoke, the ashes returned to ashes and the dirt to dirt. That's what they did on rubbish piles. Burnt up the useless stuff, melted it away.

_Just throw that old thing out, there's a good boy. _

They put a sack over his head and beat his arms with sticks, making the ochre leak and little stones inside crackle. Then bent back his clay-formed fingers until they wouldn't go straight again, until he wept big dirty tears from his dirty face. They smashed the sticks into the broken clay and shouted, but a doll doesn't know anything. A doll is silent and mute until its owner comes to give it a voice.

"Look, he's grinning. What's so funny, stranger?"

"Leave him. He's gone addled. Or he was already. Stupid stubborn bastard."

An aimless kick, a pouting frown. Silly toy got broken. Have to find a new one. Oh the bother of it all! "He's no good to anyone anymore."

The two little boys with their toys went away, leaving their doll behind them.

o.O.o

_In the eye of the world turning, the calm remains. _

So Aris Fi-Quentin thought as he walked aimlessly around Prison Block AD39. Two fivedays and more had passed; he had interrogated a hapless trader and a hot-blooded young revolutionary, broken them both before sending them to the hangman, watched as the information he had extracted failed to save his employer from the noose himself, lived through a coup and it's subsequent purges – yet when he returned here, nothing had changed.

Same walls. Same doors. Same moans and whimpers from the imprisoned; the careless, the desperate, the fools and martyrs. He had no fear for himself ending up with them, since he was none of these, and a trained interrogator is always needed. Oh yes.

He wandered down to the lower levels, nodding to the guards who saluted him and smiling back at the officers that grinned nervously at his blank features. Needed and feared. Just as it should be.

He had come back here for nostalgia, and to collect some personal items. The new Chancellor – a younger, shrewder man than the old one – had requested he stay in the capital permanently. He would probably never see this place again, not that he would miss it...

"Sir Fi-Quentin?"

He turned smoothly, his face betraying nothing as he saw the sweating, obese man before him. Dal Vi-Grakor had been promoted sideways to this nowhere place due to a combination of gross incompetence, bribery and family connections, not all of those things his own.

He was adequate. Barely.

"Sir Fi-Quentin, is it true? We have a new Chancellor?"

"Yes." He had no desire to converse with this man. No doubt it would be a wasted effort. He watched Vi-Grakor lick plump lips apprehensively, edging towards a question, but did not press him. A good interrogator never pushed too hard.

"Sir, the prisoner in Cell Four..."

"What prisoner?" he said with a trace of irritation. How could he be expected to know them all?

"The dark-haired outlander, the one who wouldn't speak... despite all your excellent self could do to press him... no doubt the man is damaged in his mind, we have reason to believe–"

"Get on with it." Yes, he remembered that one now. He had been angry... but he had forgotten, eventually. What was one stupid offworlder who probably didn't even know anything good?

"Yes, yes my lord..." _My lord_ indeed. He had been born the son of a farmer and a shop-keeper's daughter. Now fat men grovelled to him and strong men screamed under his hands. "The... old... chancellor requested we keep working on him, but I was wondering if... he hasn't spoken and he's... I have talked with his questioners and they seem convinced he is addled in the head."

"Your point?" Aris asked, his voice holding a great deal of those. "You wish to simply kill him and have done?"

Vi-Grakor said nothing, but stood and sweated despite the cool air, his squinting little eyes intent. Of course he would not confirm his request... if Aris reacted the wrong way he could deny everything as long as he kept his mouth shut. Aris suddenly felt a great desire to be free of this place, with its fat guards and mad offworlders and lazy questioners. "It is your choice. It is unlikely he holds anything useful, but if he _does_..."

"Yes, yes, of course," the fat man said hastily. "He is valuable still. I will see to it he is looked after, although he is of course frail..."

Aris waved him away, watching him disappear with faint relief before starting to make his way to the entrance.

He had lost his taste for Prison Block AD39.

o.O.o

Dal Vi-Grakor rubbed his podgy fingers nervously through each other as he summoned a pair of guards to assist him. Really, this offworlder had been nothing but trouble from the day he got here... fivedays of time and money wasted questioning him, and not a useful word to be had! Better that he had died, but no, he had to be kept alive now. Just in case...

Blast the coup anyway! All it meant was more prisoners, more work, more money spent on snivelling wreaks who puked their food up and whimpered when they faced the noose. He deserved better than this, the firstborn son of house Vi-Grakor, but apparently he was stuck to putrefy here as well... like the wretches he ruled. A rotting king of a rotting kingdom.

It didn't take long to find the room, the stench as it was opened overpowering enough to make even the hardened soldiers gag. Dal averted his face and motioned them in, waiting impatiently outside until they emerged with a broken stick-pile of a man, a mass of festering wounds crusted with filth, one hand swollen and misshapen, his nether regions and legs streaked with old faeces, limp and unresponsive. Revolting.

And a conundrum. They had little space as it was, and there would be less so once the purges started... which they would. It was as much a cycle of nature as prey and predators, or fire burning deadwood away. Yet this man needed to go _somewhere_.

"Sor?" One guard was looking at him blankly, his face a cast picture of dull curiosity. Dal waved a hand, thinking.

"Have the yards been cleared yet?" There had been a cartload of stone for the new outbuildings, which _should_ have been all used by now.

"Yes sor."

Idiot peasant. "Put him in there. Use a leash or something to stop him running. Then tell the cooks to send out water and food daily."

"Yes sor."

Dal watched them haul the disgusting body up, its chest barely moving, making a mental note to have a shirt and pants sent down. It was still autumn after all; the nights were getting colder, but they were survivable with shelter and the right clothing. No-one used the yards. No-one would care what was put there.

And if the man expired anyway, no blame could be attached. People died, after all.

Yes, he thought smugly as the trio left his sight, it was indeed the perfect compromise.

o.O.o

The yard barely deserved to be called that. Prison Block AD39 was in fact one building of four; the main detention area, housing the most important (and dangerous) inmates, was the biggest construction, with three other buildings lying vertically to it like prongs from a pitchfork. These housed the less dangerous prisoners, the off-duty guards and provided services necessary for both they and their prisoners – cookhouses, a laundry, even a small brothel at the end of the middle building.

Between the smaller buildings and the main one were deserted patches laughingly called yards, where the light and soil was too poor to grow vegetables and too small to keep animals, even if animals had been allowed there. The gap between the outer exteriors of all the buildings had been walled off to save money on fences, meaning the two furthest yards – the ones between the main block the 'arms' of the prong – were enclosed on three sides by solid, grey stone barriers that blocked out most of the sun except at high noon. Nothing grew in those little patches of dirt except a few hardy weeds.

They dumped John in the middle of one of these dirt squares brusquely, ignoring the way he whimpered in fear and tried to scramble backwards, the taller of them holding him pinned while the other produced a thin chain, one end nailed to a stake.

It was the work of a few minutes to pound the stake into the hard earth, then a few more to loop the other end of the chain around John's ankle and fasten it with a small lock. Then they left, not once glancing backwards at the man hugging his legs and burying his face in his knees behind them.

Much later another man came, holding a bundle of clothes, a bucket of water and a bowl of whitish curds. He had the tired, defeated look of a man whose life consisted of many kicks and little praise, but he went about his task efficiently enough. A mouldy brown pullover was tugged over his head, his leg was briefly released in order for a pair of pants in the same colour to be pulled up to his hips, and the bucket was placed by his bare feet when he scuttled backwards to the end of his leash after being let go.

The man put down the bowl within reach of the chain, then went away without a word spoken. John drank everything inside down in one long swallow, then set about scooping up some of the water with one dirty hand. Only when his stomach was bloated with liquid did he lie down with his back to the furthest wall, curled in a protective huddle with his bare feet drawn up under him.

John belched, settled his head in his arms, and went to sleep with one eye open.

o.O.o

"You are distracted."

Rodney started, for a moment surprise taking precedence over annoyance at his thoughts being interrupted and the tinge of fear that rose inexorably whenever he saw the speaker. The logical mind saw the handcuffs and the marines tramping everywhere with their big, big guns, but the rest of him just saw Scary Monster Of The Life-Sucking Kind, and reacted accordingly.

Right now it was doing that head-tilt thing which meant it was either thinking about something or had a crick on its neck. Probably the former. "Your theories of late have become most erratic. As have your habits."

"Has anyone ever told you it's rude to make personal comments?" Rodney snapped.

"You have not eaten since you arrived here. That is most unusual."

"Oh, and now you're my _mother_?" Not that his mother had ever regulated his food intake. He'd learnt early on that if you wanted food, you had to sort things out for yourself. "Anyway, I don't want you thinking about food, _especially_ not in connection with me."

It offered a smile full of needles. "You have no need to fear, Dr McKay. John Sheppard's offering will suffice for a little longer."

Okay, that was below the belt even for an alien vampire. Firstly because it reminded him of Wallace, who reminded him of Jennie lying all pale and still, which lead to him _volunteering_ to feed himself to a Wraith, which lead to a whole parcel of things he did_ not_ want to think about, least of all how close he had come to actually _dieing_, and the man who had died in his place...

Secondly because on that day, however terrible and guilt-inducing and bladder-wrenching it might have been... Sheppard had been there.

He'd happily trade a thousand Wallaces, hell, he'd even feed them to that green-skinned gargoyle himself if need be. If it brought Sheppard back.

"Yes... well... good." Unable to think of anything particularly scathing, and wiping away water from his eyes under the pretext of rubbing them tiredly (it was _dust_, dammit, he had _allergies_, that was _all_...) Rodney turned back to his terminal.

"I have not seen John Sheppard for quite some time now."

Rodney's jaw clenched so hard it hurt. "Why would he want to see _you_?"

"He has no reason to." He could feel its eyes boring into his back. "Yet I recall he visited quite often in order to see you. He is no longer doing that."

"He's _fine_," Rodney grated untruthfully, despite all his hopes to the contrary. The prickling between his shoulder blades increased, making him turn around purely on instinct.

The Wraith's eyes were narrow, suspicious lines. "I did not suggest he was not."

o.O.o

His existence had turned from torment to boredom, if one eternally frightened can be said to be bored.

Once a day a man – some luckless guard or servant who picked the short straw after their shift – brought him a new bucket of water and a bowl filled with scraps, setting them down carelessly inside the dusty ring where his chain ends. At first they had been suspicious, almost frightened, mindful of barrack-rooms rumours that spoke of the Mad Offworlder, who had kicked and bit and fought like a demon. After a few trips where he had cowered from people's gaze like a beaten pup, they had lost their caution and now treated him with an easy contempt only born from familiarity with something as pathetic as he.

He spent his time rocking, his left hand fisted and stuck in his mouth or tangled through his hair and clutching at the ragged strands there. His right hand was still mangled and twisted, and his chin and cheeks itched with stubbly beard growth.

He no longer cared. No-one was coming. No-one would see him like this. He no longer even really remembered what their faces looked like, or how their names sound. The soul of every human being is not a fluffy white cloud as some believe, but a series of webbed and knotted strings, threads made of memory and hopes and fears and courage and weakness.

In John's soul some of those strings had snapped.

o.O.o

A routine developed.

The grey light of the dawn woke him, glinting off the dewdrops gathered in his clothes and hair like glass beads. He shook these off and shivered a few times, eyes wild and wary as they darted around his little patch of ground, nostrils flaring in the sharp morning air.

The shifts changed soon after, night to day, the guards either ignoring him or jeering and throwing things – stones gathered from the dust beneath their feet, or rotten food from meagre meals. He flinched from the first, curling into a ball until they stop (one hit him on the head despite this some time ago; now he saw blinking lights sometimes and his mind bled out with the redness from the split). The second was soon scraped up from the dry dirt and stuffed into his mouth, no matter how bad it tasted. Mostly it was old fruit, but sometimes he got lucky and there were crusts of bread in the mix.

Then he sat, scratching or tugging aimlessly at his chain, a red weal already raised around his ankle. As the sun rose to a hot noon the whores came out, laughing and stretching in the sun. This was their dull period, their least busy time, and so they were out to enjoy the last of the autumn warmth and relax among themselves. A few drifted up to laugh at him, or mock in shrill, sneering tones, but they never bother to throw anything so John took no notice, entranced only by their dresses; ruby-red, emerald-green and amber-yellow, their copper jewellery flashing like molten fire, the thin red streaks in their hair and on their palms that mark their profession shimmering like blood.

They left soon for lunch, and he was alone again until his fresh bucket of water and bowl of food was brought out. The bearers had grown bolder of late, often aiming kicks at him as they dump his sustenance with weary sighs, or tugging at his chain to make him yelp. Mostly there were scraps from the guard's cookhouse; shreds of meat with glistening white fat globules mixed with hard biscuits and gravy. He gulped the lot down, smearing the brown liquid over his chin, always watching in case the provider comes back (they did, sometimes) to kick the bowl over or torment him a little more.

His afternoon passed lazily; he sat and rocked, sucking the back of his hand or trailing his fingers in the dust until the most dreaded time of the day wheeled around the axis of the falling sun.

Evening brought the day shift outside, bored and weary from their long hours. They saw prey staked out like a sacrificial goat and accepted the offering with pleasure.

They formed a ring around John, hemming him in until he is crouched by the stake, cowering and scared. When one of them grabbed him he didn't resist; the first few times he had still been strong enough in his fear to swing punches or kick out at them, but they had squeezed his broken hand and beaten him senseless for it. So he let them pinch and grab and kick at him, little spots of bruises forming where they struck. One grabbed his pullover and tugged it, ripping the thin cloth easily between strong hands. He yelped in terror and tried to back away, cringing as the remnants were pulled away and waved triumphantly over the head of its new owner like a ragged flag.

When they had had enough fun they left him, quaking in the new cold that struck his bare chest, hunching down and curling into the tightest ball he could manage to preserve body heat. As the two moons rose to cast pale purple light John let his eyes drift shut and fell into restless dreams.

o.O.o

Ilu, alone of all beings on P3Z-212, more commonly known as Mijol, bore only the one name. All others had a second clan name to pinpoint their family and a precursor to place their origin of birth, but he had no family that still lived and his place of birth was really none of the Mijolnans business.

He wouldn't have got away with it if he had been anyone but Ilu. _Lord_ Ilu he was sometimes called – respectfully – but he had no official title. Just wealth and enough land to almost be the ruler of his own little county, if he so chose. Indeed, he ruled as surely there as the Chancellor and his Council with their endless petty rules did over the rest of their province. If he had wished it so he could have brought them off their comfortable plush chairs, paved his way with money to Chancellorship of his own... but he did not wish it. Luckily for them.

An guard of his own soldiers marched around him; red-armoured, grey-clothed, steely-faced men of equal height and strength, black boots hitting the ground in the perfect rhythm born of discipline. He oversaw their training himself; power made enemies. Their minds buzzed around him like a cloud of flies, and he was pleased to note that all were alert for danger. Not that there was any, but it was good that they were prepared.

He nudged his _quatek_ forward impatiently, anxious to get this over with, the beast's cloven hooves scooping up dirt with each step. Dal Vi-Grakor was a greedy, unpleasant little man with worse thoughts, a true burden to be around, but he was also well connected despite his dead-end job, brought about by appetites that would disgust even the denizens he entertained. It was necessary every so often to visit and keep an eye on what he was doing, since the man drank like a fish and spilled secrets along with vomit. A handy source of valuable information.

Besides, as the foremost and indeed _only_ chemist on the planet Ilu had a... an _interest_ in the effects of the drugs he so carefully tested. The knowledge of such had spawned his wealth and power, which grew daily as more requests were sent in, for a serum that did _that_ or a potion that did _this_ – all paid for in straight gold and platinum.

His disgusting host was waiting for him, almost grovelling in his efforts to bow lowly. Ilu met the gesture with a brief nod, swirling off his mount with the lightest of landings. Everyone who looked saw a tall man with indeterminate features, his hair a silver-grey but his features unwrinkled, his clothes of modest cut but richly made. The only things that anyone ever remembered well were his eyes – large, pale, and colourless, like morning clouds. As they turned towards the prison the watchers blinked and winched as the bright sun hit them from behind the building, too bright for human eyes to stare at for long without pain.

Ilu did not blink; and his mind was focused on the droning thoughts of those around him. That was because Ilu was not human.

o.O.o

"... Of course your Lordship's produce has been of _extreme_ help..."

Ilu really didn't care how much help his _produce_ had been to this little grunting man. They, and he, were simply a means to an end. He was more caught up in the many and myriad emotions swirling around him... fear, pain, hunger, loss, sadistic enjoyment... the boundless energies threatening to make him lose control completely.

"...Although sometimes of course more traditional methods have their place..."

_Yes_, he thought with dark humour. _That is a nice euphemism._ Traditional _methods – burnings, beatings and breaking bones, but nicely put._

"Might I offer your lordship a drink?"

"Not yet, if you please Guardian Vi-Grakor. I would rather have a little air first." This place reeked, although the power was welcome. Fresh air might help clear his lungs of the putrid stench.

He was led out into a rectangle of rusty brown earth between two parallel buildings, the sun almost at its zenith overhead. Vague scratching sounds made him turn slightly, seeing a dirty, pathetic-looking creature rocking in the dust of an enclosed area barely bigger than an animal pen. Its bare chest was covered in so many weals, bruises and cuts it looked almost red, and even from here he could see it was frightened of them, far away though they were.

Vi-Grakor saw him look and simpered. "Oh, that's just an offworlder we captured a moon or so back. Quite mad, I'm afraid. We keep him here out of pity, tender-hearted fools that we are."

Ilu ignored this blatant lie and walked closer to the cowering thing – a human man, he could see now, beaten and broken, one hand drawn up by his side like a pup with a thorn in its pads, mind a blank aura of terror. He caught a glimpse of something strange on its chest, almost...

No. Impossible. Or... very strange...

The cowering man shuffled backwards, keeping his face turned warily towards this new threat. Hunched though he was the print on his chest was unmistakable. A human would never have seen it, but Ilu saw things differently from humans.

The man bore the perfect red mark of a Wraith's feeding hand.

Not only that, but it was not the mark of _feeding_. A Wraith would have known, and so did Ilu. Moreover, he recognised the unique biological imprint – scattered in proteins and faint pheromones – of the Wraith who had done so.

_Well_ now...

He turned abruptly to Vi-Grakor, who was watching him with something like bemusement. "Have him cleaned and taken to my escort. I will see to his care from now on."

The man's pink mouth opened in an astonished O. "But, but my lord..."

Ilu walked a little closer, towering over the shorter man like a tree over a blade of weak grass, his voice holding something of its natural rasp as he said "Are you _arguing_ with me, Guardian?"

Vi-Grakor paled as much as he was able, delicious fear pouring off him in waves. "No... No my lord... it will be done."

The flabby man scurried away, leaving him with his new acquisition. A valuable acquisition.

If anyone could have seen Ilu, they would have backed away at the thin, secret smile he gave.


	5. Breaking and Being Broken: Chapter 4

Well, I managed to get the smell of rotten tomatoes out of my clothes (you folks aim well, I'll grant you that!). Hopefully things will take a turn for the better-ish for our brave boy.

**Ocean**: Surprisingly, I have a first-hand account from a reliable source that people have survived much worse in Sheppy's situation without dieing. Did you think I'd do all this without checking I wasn't about to kill him first? :)

* * *

Something new was happening. Something bad.

John didn't _know_, exactly, what specific badness was coming his way. He was no telepath. But anything that broke routine, anything out of the ordinary had to be bad, because that was just how things went. The way the world was.

He was studying his own toes intently, knowing by experience not look up and catch someone's eye, but hands grabbed under his armpits and pulled him upright, forcing him to face the light. A lantern held up to his eyes as the man behind it studied him. It hurt, but he bit his lip and said nothing, trying not to vomit and cause a blow.

It was late evening, a sprinkling of stars already appearing overhead in the little square of sky he could see. They were frosty and cold, like the air around him; autumn was fading fast, winter's ice claws tearing out the last of its warmth. John shivered uncontrollably as his ankle was unclipped from its chain, the same uncaring hands that had freed him now half-carrying, half-dragging him out of the yard and back into the prison block.

_No..._ If it had been said out loud it would have been a moan. _No, no, no, nononononono..._

He shivered even more and wept feebly, but he didn't struggle. Struggling just made things worse.

They took him straight through the building by the quickest route, though he didn't know it, almost in a straight line from the back way to the main entrance. Parked outside the front were some of the weirdest creatures John could ever hope to see; two-legged, cloven-hoofed, snake-necked, and furred, like some insane mixture of iguanodon and goat. Five horse-sized one's were being held ready by dull-eyed servants, while a stockier one with longer forearms was tethered in the traces of a small, rickety cart, head rope attached to the saddle of one of the mounts. He was dumped in the back of said cart abruptly, a brief whispered debate ensuing before a scratchy blanket was drawn around his shoulders, his wrists tied together with cord, the other end looped through a hole drilled in the wooden planks of the dray.

A gaggle of men appeared from the doorway behind him; four obviously soldiers, dressed in light grey clothes overlaid with lacquered red armour, one a podgy, sweating man in extravagant robes, and another man, easily the tallest of the six, his dark tunic and pants plainly made but richly toned.

It was the last who approached the wagon as the soldiers mounted and the fat man grovelled, his piercing colourless gaze making John shuffled backwards in terror, rope pulling at his wrists. The man looked at him a long time, then turned and barked an order to the soldiers.

John huddled down, the cart rocking him in quick jerks, while around him the world fell away.

o.O.o

Sam pinched the bridge of her nose wearily. Today was turning out to be one of those days you only got when you worked for SGC, when weirdness blended itself with just plain shitiness to thoroughly spoil your waking hours.

There had been an awful lot of those days lately. Colonel Sheppard's disappearance had sparked a plague of what could only be called Murphy's Law Syndrome, which was common enough as it was for Pegasus but seemed to have multiplied tenfold, as though Atlantis was trying to blackmail them into bringing back her favourite son through bizarre mishaps.

A soldier had shot himself in the foot by mistake. A technician had electrocuted himself accidentally. A botanist had brought back a plant that caused severe hayfever to anyone in a ten metre radius, which was basically everyone that had been working with him in that room – all twelve of them. AR-3 had encountered something like a scaly mammoth exploring an Ancient ruin, while AR-8 had managed to ingest a couple of kilos of the local equivalent of marijuana during a greeting ceremony on M3V-554...

And now, along with rash-covered scientists and tripping marines, she had to cope with the thing glaring at her from an uncomfortably close distance away. She might not have met any truly hostile Wraith yet, but their resident would-be ally was giving her a good guess at how much she didn't want to – ever.

"This won't help Sheppard," she said as patiently as was possible under the circumstances. "We are doing everything we can..."

"You have halved the number of humans searching for him," it rasped in that creepy, gravelly voice. _Damn_ McKay and his prattling mouth...

"It was necessary... the IOA..."

"Is not here, Dr Carter." The Wraith leant forward slightly, the audible _clicks_ of P90s being cocked sounding like sarcastic applause. "_I am._"

Sam eyeballed him right back, refusing to back down to any oversized, green-skinned Martian wannabe. "I can see that. But so am I and," she pointed to the marines encircling them both like wolves around two sick deer, "so are they."

It shot her a look that was disturbingly Sheppard-like, the lazy, shit-eating half-smirk half-snarl that said _Go on, I dare ya_. What had it meant by 'brothers' anyway? Was it just another creepy Wraith thing, or was there more going on here?

She couldn't tell. The damn thing had an even better poker face than Teal'c.

"I am aware of that," it said in a tone so close to her's it might have been deliberate mockery. "Yet my words remain. Until Sheppard is returned to Atlantis your Dr McKay will have to write his nanite coding alone."

Knowing full well McKay was refusing to work without the Wraith's help – and probably gloating at the trouble it was causing – Sam said "You know we could always try persuading you." She grimaced inwardly at how it had come out. _Ve haf vays of makink you talk..._

It grinned fully this time, a mirthless baring of dirty needle teeth like a smirking shark. _Make my day._

"I know you could try," it said.

o.O.o

The journey was a long one. The motion of the cart soon lulled John into a half-doze, his eyes fluttering shut for what seemed like only minutes before he opened them again and the light had dimmed a little more. When the sun finally touched the horizon the group stopped at a way station, a building of rough yellow staffed by a nervous thin man the reminded John of someone he should remember (little man with glasses; in his dreams they gleamed white like snow-caps an Antarctic summer) and his many family members. A woman who might have been his mother looked after John indifferently, giving him a spare room with no breakables before having two guards hold him down while she set his shattered hand. After he had finished screaming in pain she gave him a bowl of cold stew and left with only a contemptuous glance to remember her by.

He ate it all, licked the bowl clean, and stood on guard for the rest of the night, not daring to sleep.

About halfway through the night the tall man came inside. John scuttled into a corner and hunched down, but this did not seem to perturb him. He simply stared at the cowering man for a while, before turning and exiting as silently as he had come – leaving a white cotton bag behind him.

John watched it.

He watched it a long time.

Things had gone strange. He didn't like strange. Strange meant new bad things to happen, just as you were getting used to the old; it meant finding new ways to survive the unsurvivable, new types of kicks to dodge that you couldn't learn fast enough so they hurt, oh they did hurt. They were cruel like that... everyone. They let you not-hurt so when the pain started up again it hurt even worse...

Even... them. Them. His Team. His Team, the ones he had sworn to, who had sworn back with wide-open eyes saying_ yes, yes, we will come for you, as you would for us, because we're your Friends, your Family, trust us, trust us._

Family. He could tell them a few things about _family_. He should never have put his trust in family. He should have known better.

Eventually John sidled forward cautiously, knobbed limbs crooked and ready as a spider's, one hand still drawn up and painful despite the splints. His left hand uncurled, the tip of one bony finger reaching out slowly to nudge the little purse.

When angry guards failed to erupt screaming in rage from the woodwork John picked the soft bag and tipped it up. A pile of orange-yellow spheres tumbled into his hand, slightly sticky and smelling of sugar. Sweets?

He hesitated, torn between fear and hunger (he was always hungry now). Hunger won, as it always did. The sweets tasted of fruit; something like melon and something like apples, but sharper than either and a little syrupy in the middle. John ate one, then two, then three in one handful, and finally the rest in a steady chain before licking his teeth and wishing he had more.

Despite the sugar he soon felt drowsy, his eyes starting to close despite himself and his fear (he was always afraid now as well). Except not so much fear anymore; it was fading, become less important somehow. All he wanted to do was sleep. Even his head didn't hurt anymore, like it had since that carelessly thrown stone, and his hand was numb wood.

John closed his eyes and let sleep carry him away from the terror.

o.O.o

That morning when the soldiers put the crazy offworlder on the back of the cart he did nothing but yawn and curl up tighter under the blanket they pulled over him. They tied him to the cart anyway, just to take precautions; they were paid to be cautious. No sense in risking him waking up early and jumping out a moving wagon in panic.

They set out again, the offworlder jolting bonelessly over every stone.

o.O.o

John – if he had been awake to see – would have thought Ilu's home looked like a cross between a wizard's tower and a keep from a fantasy book; one central spire surrounded by a cluster of lower buildings and a strong stockade, it's only door made of iron-bound wood covered in bronze, a special locking mechanism preventing it from opening inwards. Wealth brought enemies, after all. Powerful enemies.

The outlander didn't stir when he was pulled – gently, gentleness was essential now; gentleness and compassion – from his sleeping place. Ilu frowned a little at this, thinking the dose might have been too strong, then shrugged mentally. A few more hours sleep would do the man no harm. Indeed, he looked as though he might desperately need it.

"Take him up to the guest chamber," he instructed the soldiers. "Make sure they are properly prepared. Nothing sharp or heavy. Take his restraints off before you leave."

Then, as an afterthought, "And lock the door."

The man in charge, a corporal freshly promoted and young enough to still have trouble finding enough beard to shave, nodded and saluted. Ilu watched as the limp body was manhandled into his dwelling place, before following and turning towards his study.

He had a few hours. He had better make the most of them.

o.O.o

There was nothing.

In that nothing was John Sheppard.

There was no light, no sound, no smells or sensation or hot or cold. No up or down. No air, no earth, not even vacuum. There was nothing.

Except John. And his thoughts.

Such as they were.

In the gulf between sleeping and waking he journeyed through a desert, a desert with a yellow sky centred with a white-hot sun. All around him images flickered like heat waves over tarmac, or marsh-gas floating over a putrid swamp. And endless parade of faces.

There was Sumner, wrinkled and bent over the hole through his heart, there was Weir, throat showing purple where her neck had been snapped, Ford there as well and looking almost normal until you realised he'd been melted and reformed like molten rock. Holland took his cigarette out and waved with one bloody arm, red spraying from the puncture in his throat with each breath while Ellia, her skin covered in blue scales, talked with men in hooded robes with gun slung around their backs and faces that were made of shattered white bone in torn red flesh.

Carson squatted beside him and told him he was getting dehydrated through charcoaled lips, red cracks appearing in his blackened skin while he spoke, melted sightless eyes wobbling like mouldy jelly.

"You'd better get out of this bloody place soon, lad," he said. Flakes fell from around his face as his jaws moved, his cheeks splitting open to show sooty teeth. John couldn't stop watching it, even though he wanted to scream. "Get up and get out, fast as you can. Before the sun sets."

"What happens then?" he asked, but Carson just looked grave.

"Get out, John... go home... before it's too late..."

The sun overhead grew swollen and bloody, swallowing the desert. Carson vanished in an orange-tinged rose, melting away with a smell of... cotton?

John woke with tears streaming down his face, and didn't know why. Nor did he know why he was in a bed; a generous-sized one with white sheets that smelt freshly washed, almost lemony, light, and soft and wrapped around his legs like a snare. He kicked them off frantically and rolled onto the floor – golden-brown polished wood with blue fleece rugs – crouching three-footed, his splinted hand drawn up and crooked by his side, eyes darting warily from corner to corner. There was nothing else in the room beside the door, bed, rugs, shuttered windows and a football-sized globe giving off a golden glow from near the ceiling.

The door opened. He scuttled backwards awkwardly; pressed himself into a corner, folding himself to nothing remained but bare feet and dirty pant legs topped by a pair of scared eyes. He was not surprised when the tall man entered, recognising the main player in this game of pain and betrayal – the successor of Doc and Grumpy. The rest were just pawns, like him. Easy come, easy go.

His head hurt so much.

Tall Man hunkered down on his heels, studying him like... what? He remembered Hobbie, found around the back of the house with bite-marks on his flanks, coat scruffy with dust, the skin underneath bruised by careless stones and kicks. The puppy had run and hid under their porch until he'd coaxed it out with his sandwich and stroked his soft fur gently while it shook in his arms, before running to tell Mom.

They'd taken him to the vet, but they hadn't taken him out. Canine distemper wasn't worth fighting in a stray puppy. There was no vaccine for it, just one shot and the crematorium.

Like hospitals, the vet's was where you went to see loved one's die.

He shivered like Hobbie had and dropped his gaze. He didn't want a shot. He didn't want to burn. He just wanted... what? To go home? But how could he, when they plainly didn't want him anymore? He shook and bit the back of his hand, watching the Tall Man through a fringe of hair.

The other regarded him thoughtfully, before reaching out and whispering "Come here."

John shook and whimpered, but those pale eyes held him, and he found that he was edging forward despite himself. The man held himself perfectly still as he approached, none foot shuffling from under his body, then the other joining it, making a sideways crablike motion, stopping just out of hands' reach.

Tall Man did nothing, long fingers still stretched out as though in supplication. He didn't look like much of a threat, crouched there, but John knew. Oh he knew, knew about niceness and nastiness, the purity that covered rottenness beneath like a perfect china mask. If you couldn't tell who to trust, then never trust anyone.

Trust meant exposing yourself, it meant weakness and flaws and eventual pain. He knew about pain as well.

He turned away and scurried back to the corner.

o.O.o

Ilu left after the offworlder's nerve broke, but he returned later with water and food. Not stew or gruel, but proper roasted meat, diced and stuffed with sauce and vegetables into a semi-circular pastry. It gleamed golden as he entered the guest quarters again, the offworlder still in his same corner, the one farthest from the door.

The lord crouched down again, keeping his voice low and level. "Are you hungry?"

The body did not move, but he felt its thoughts collate into an arrowhead of need, the thread of hunger woven throughout. "I have brought food. Good food, and clean water. No matter what you do, or what you say, there will always be food and water when you need them." He caught a faint echo of remembered fear when he said _say_. Perhaps the offworlder was mute? It would fit his scattered thoughts, the mind that was like a shattered mirror; all rainbow colours and patterns, but still a broken thing.

_Gently, gently._ Broken or not, he was still very frightened, and Ilu wanted his trust even if his fear was intoxicatingly strong. Things would go so much more smoothly if the offworlder trusted him. He kept up a steady stream of quiet words, hoping to coax the man out of his safe place.

"Food and water. Would you like something other than water? There is fruit juice in the kitchen. I would offer you wine, but it would sicken you like this. New clothes are being purchased as well, clean clothes. I expect you would like to wash? I can arrange for a bath to be run, but you would have to trust me. I know you don't, but you can. You can trust me. I am here to help you."

It was to no avail. He knew the man was listening, but fear deafened his thoughts and froze him in place. _Gently. _This would take time, perhaps a great deal of time. If he tried to rush things, to push the offworlder before he was ready, the trust he wanted to establish would spoil and sour. This must be done of the offworlder's free will.

"I am going to leave now," he said quietly. "When I return I will have more food. Remember, I am here to help you."

The offworlder blinked, worked his jaw, and convulsed, harsh coughing sounds making Ilu wonder if he should find a physician. Then he realised the man was trying to laugh.

"I promise," he said softly as he rose, putting the pastry down carefully on the floor. "I am here to help."

He left then, leaving the offworlder with the food but keeping a mental tab on him as he climbed the stairs up to his private quarters. About halfway up the colours of the man's mind shifted, a kaleidoscope settling into a new pattern as he darted forward and grabbed the pastry, gravy gushing over his hands and chin as he gobbled it down. Ilu smiled.

Food would be the simplest thing. All living creatures required food and followed those who provided it. Later there would be finer things; the clothes and baths he had mentioned, perhaps a little freedom of movement if he was here long enough to develop that far. He sighed. The only reason he wouldn't be would be failure on his own part... and he was determined not to fail. Not this time.

He sat down at his work desk thoughtfully, fingers absently tracing patterns in the mother-of-pearl inlay, the carved relief at the edges. The man in that room, and especially the mark on his chest, were intriguing. A Wraith Worshipper most likely, yet... he had questioned Vi-Grakor, and apparently he had been caught after saving a young boy and distracting his captors while his fellows fled through the 'gate... His _human_ fellows.

Wraith were not known for their sentimentality, nor were their followers. There was something more behind this and yet... his senses did not lie. The mark had been plainly there in front of him, and the Gift was only given to highly placed Worshippers.

Ilu snorted. Of course, anything was possible. Perhaps this was simply a trap or an obscure joke. Yet neither idea fit very well. No, there was something more behind all this.

He sat at his desk a long time – he did not require much sleep – then rose early to collect a breakfast of fruit and fresh bread, setting off to the guest quarters again. The offworlder was in his corner as always, fast asleep with brown gravy stain on his clothes and the white blankets that had been dragged off the bed to wrap around him in a warm cocoon, his hands licked perfectly clean. Ilu sat patiently and sent a tickling thought, the equivalent of a gentle nudge to wake him up.

The man blinked owlishly, freezing as soon as he spotted Ilu in the room with him. Ilu himself picked up where he had started the day before, in a soothing litany of _trust me _and _it will be alright _and _you are safe now_. The offworlder didn't appear to believe him this time any more than the first time, so Ilu left again, the breakfast he had gathered lying in a neat pile behind him as he went.

The human went to grab the food in a shorter time than yesterday, though. That was something.

The next meal went the same way, and the next after that and after that as well. But Ilu held on to his patience and control, leaving the food as before, feeling the man gradually overcome his fear of being caught eating and start forward as soon as the door was shut.

He had time enough.

o.O.o

Things had become confusing, even more confusing than normal when your head rises and falls like a stormy sea. Not so unusual; John found many things strange still, although one thing he had learned to understand well was cruelty. Part of the strangeness, since one of the things he had learnt was that cruelty was everywhere, every place and person, and there was no escaping it. The low-level malevolence and dirty little rottenness was as much a part of the world as the air that supported its life, or the sun that cast its shadows.

But this... this oddity, this weirdness in the form of the Tall Man had no logic behind it, no reason he could think of. Cruelty had many reason apart from mere survival; gain, enjoyment, a simple liking for the deed. But this peculiarity, this... _kindness_... it had no reason he could see. He was being given food without question, shelter without payment, a bed he never used yet was never scolded for shunning, and it puzzled him.

John was starting to think – absurdly – that perhaps the Tall Man was a Good Man.

_No no no. _Impossible. There were no Good Men. Hadn't he learnt that? Hadn't Doc and Grumpy and Dopey and Buzz Cut taught him that? There were men who were cruel for gain and men who were cruel because they wanted to be and men who were kind for gain. But there were never men who were kind because they wanted to be, the same way there were no flying pigs or vegetarian Wraith. Such creatures did not exist.

He hadn't been counting how many meals he'd had, but there had been enough to put a little blood into him, to make his limbs grow a little stronger. When he'd filled the chamber pot hidden under the bed the Tall Man had taken it away himself, before showing John a partly-concealed doorway that hid an inside toilet. This simple act of cleanliness had started to niggle at his mind, pushing him into his absurd ideas.

The Tall Man was here now, holding what looked like a French loaf sandwich, its sides dripping with red sauce and alien vegetables. The smell was agonisingly mouth-watering, because he had been sitting there for much longer than before, refusing to leave.

He had only spoken once. "Take the food. It is yours. You have nothing to fear from me."

He was scared, but he was also hungry. As before, his hunger won out.

John crept forward warily, eyes flicking between the sandwich and its holder. He was dangerous, but he also had food. It was a bad combination, but he had grown used to having a full belly and... The man wanted him to have the food.

That settled it, just as he was within range. The man wanted him to eat. If he didn't, the man might hurt him. So he would eat, even though it was oh so dangerous, even though he was going to be hurt for it. Because he would be hurt more if he turned away and spurned this gift and the food would be taken away as well. And he was so hungry.

John reached out his good hand – the right one still hurt and ground when he moved it – and touched the bread lightly.

When nothing happen he grabbed a piece of the corner and pulled gently. The sandwich came out; spilling vegetables across the clean floor and making him recoil, darting backwards in fear. He had made a mess and that was bad and he was going to be hurt, made to scream and scream in atonement because he had been so bad...

In the middle of his shaking and cowering, he suddenly realised he had not been hit or hurt, and opened his eyes.

The Tall Man was gone.

For a moment John felt only stupid astonishment. He had been bad. He had grabbed and made a mess. And yet the man had walked away. Was his punishment being put off? He crammed the sandwich in his mouth hastily, just in case the Tall Man was going to come back and take it, then hunkered down in his corner to wait for the inevitable blow.

It never came. He sat and waited in the peaceful silence, the only sound being his own breathing, and eventually the terror gave way to dread, the dread to anxiety, and the anxiety to incredulity. If punishment was coming, it was being pretty tardy...

Then the man came back, but he projected no anger and held no stick – just another sandwich. John wanted desperately to ask him why he wasn't in trouble, but he didn't trust the man enough to start speaking. It was _important_ that he didn't speak.

"Did you enjoy that?" the Tall Man asked with a smile. John stayed carefully mute. "I have another for you."

Warily – he still wasn't convinced the man ready to hit him – John slunk towards him, sullenly taking the food from his hand without grabbing it and darting away again. The Tall Man only smiled a little more, as he might watch a toddler having a small and petty sulk, before leaving without another word.

John ate the sandwich, licked his fingers, and wondered what would happen next.

o.O.o

As it turned out – not a lot. Tall Man came and went three times a day, as far as John could tell, giving him food and fresh water and speaking to him gently, as though trying to sooth a spooked horse. It was mostly the same phrases, spoken over and over in the rich baritone, but John found them reassuring. Not because he believed them, but because it meant nothing had changed.

But things did change. Change always happened, however much you didn't want it to.

He's started eating his meals near the Tall Man, since the other hadn't made a move that wasn't a smile or an offer of food. The fear of him was still there, and it was very real, but it was no longer as sharp as it had been before. The food was suffocating it, bloating it until it couldn't move and neither could he. After he was done he darted back to his corner as usual; he did not trust the Tall Man yet.

It was the _yet_ that troubled him. Trust was weakness but it was strong for all that, like slimy mosses and moulds you could scrape away with a fingernail yet worked their way into the cracks of walls until they crumbled and fell. Who was it that said hope springs eternal? It was a tough weed to kill.

His sores still troubled him, itching like a storm of mosquitoes, and in some places the scabs over his abused flesh were starting to tug uncomfortably. He willed himself not to scratch but the wall of his corner rubbed his flaking skin maddeningly, and the burn never really died away. It was inevitable that the Tall Man would notice.

When he did there was no sudden bursting in of guards to hold him down, no rat-faced little man to spread foul green poultice over his wounds. Instead there was only an early visit, an open door, and a quick exit. He was alone, but the door was open.

The door was open.

John sat on his heels and fought himself, the craving for freedom battling with his fear of what lay beyond. The door was open. The room was safe. He wasn't hurt here. The door was open. He got food here, and blankets, and no-one came in but the Tall Man, who never hurt him. It was quiet and peaceful, he knew that for certain, but outside might be anything – guards, pain, Doc with his needles, a servant holding his ankle-chain with the stake at the ready like a comic-book vampire hunter.

But... the door was open.

He shook and snorted, then shifted himself into a more comfortable position. Tall Man was going to wait a long time before he was stupid enough to leave here.

Unless... something had changed...

_Because the door was open._

His head ached and swayed, making him crouch down further and bite his closed left fist, the other hand dangling down limply. If things had changed the Tall Man might be angry if he didn't leave. Maybe he had reconsidered and was going to put John in a cell, or tie him up outside for the guards to play with again. Or maybe he was just sick of having something so smelly and dirty and pathetic around, and he was going to bring out a needle-gun or a crossbow and get rid of his burden once and for all. The possibility that the door might have been left open by accident never crossed his mind – his captors _never_ made mistakes. Like the God of his childhood they were omnipotent and all-seeing, and equally uncaring.

If that was the case, waiting here would only make things worse. Gods – and captors – didn't like to be kept waiting.

John stood up slowly, his legs muscles trembling and cramping as though he'd been swimming all morning. He wasn't used to standing up under his own steam, and the sudden elevation made his vision temporarily turn black, his brain turning horribly blank as he fought for control. One scabbed hand clutching at the wall, the other tucked in by his side, John started to hobble towards the open door.

He stumbled through finally and stopped, looking both ways as though crossing a busy road instead of leaving a room. The corridor was smooth stone, cold under his bare feet. On his left was a stout wooden door bisecting the passage like a blade of varnished planks through the tunnel of an ants nest, on his right was nothing but more corridor. He limped towards it warily, noting how everything was curving to the right as he went, until he reached another open door, this one emitting an inviting glow.

He shuffled forward cautiously and risked a peek inside. The shutters in this room were open, letting in watery yellow sunlight from behind glass windows bound in lead. In the middle was a sunken pool, edged and walled in smooth white ceramic, filled up with water that was still steaming slightly. A green glazed pot of frothy white liquid had been set down near the rim, with a clean rag, a simple protected blade, and a bundle of towels. Beside them was a larger pot, coloured blue with a lid, and a set of folded clothes.

John edged in, shoulders knotted so tense they might have been metal and ceramic themselves, and crouched by the bath. It smelt of nothing but a faint scent of something like lavender, and when he touched it there was no stinging or burn. It was nothing but water with a few added herbs.

He looked at it and thought of jumping in, covering himself in that delicious warmth, to emerge clean and pure as a new egg. Maybe then the itching would stop, maybe then he could go one night without rubbing or scratching furiously. Maybe even his head would get better, the lilac and warm water cleansing the pain in his skull.

He hurried over to the door and shut it quickly, before returning and slowly pulling off the mouldy brown sweater, his shoulder muscles cramping in remembered pain. Then he pushed down his pants and boxers with a swift glance back towards the door, and got in, his splinted hand flapping awkwardly.

It was as good as he had hoped; the gentle heat relaxing muscles that had been tense for over a month now, tense since the moment he had led a doomed man to a starving alien and watched him die without lifting a finger to help. He lay still for a while, letting himself soak, before realising that the Tall Man might come back at any minute and grabbing the rag and green pot.

It smelt sharp, but not caustic; more like soap than anything else which was probably what it was. John dumped a blob on the cloth and scrubbed his arm with it, watching in fascination as the area he had rubbed turned steadily from brown to a fresh pink. There was no irritation, nothing like there might have been if the Tall Man had put something corrosive in there for kicks, and so he started to wash himself all over, scouring the dirt away and dabbing gently at the more tender areas. When he was satisfied with his skin colour he scrubbed the stuff through his hair and rinsed it, watching as struggling black specks floated on top of the soapy water, then inundated his beard and picked up the razor.

If he had ever thought to use it as a weapon (he hadn't) that notion would have soon been disabused. Enough sharp metal showed through to cut, but it was only about a quarter of a centimetre in width, the rest shielded by polished brown wood. He scraped it across his skin carefully; tangles of dark brown matted hair falling away with each stroke until he was left with passably smooth cheeks and chin.

John lazed a little while longer, letting himself immerse completely, his eyes drooping as he breathed the fumes of almost-lavender. Without realising it he was starting to slip, to float uncaringly in the warm water as he dozed, the vapour saturating his senses until he was drifting in a faint purplish haze.

He didn't hear the door open, and was only faintly aware of being lifted gently from the sunken tub onto a dry towel, another rubbed briskly all over, towelling his hair dry with the same quick efficiency the nurses had in Atlantis on those not-so-infrequent occasions he found himself in the infirmary for a long haul. The blue pot was picked up and its lid removed, something that smelt of aloe smeared all over his skin like quick-drying oil. Linen clothes were pushed into his limp hands and a voice commanded him to get dressed. He did so, pulling everything on dreamily.

A long hand curled around John's and it felt _wrong_ somehow, like two edges of a broken plate that hadn't been aligned quite right. It made him think of clown gloves, big friendly things but you could feel the real hand underneath, all cold and bony. He pulled back torpidly, not wanting to go away with this clown-pretender, but it pulled back harder than he could manage and he panicked, starting to struggle with weak, feeble motions like a drowning kitten.

An arm encircled his shoulders and pulled him close to a clown body, padding over broken sticks, a hand rubbing through his hair to pet him gently. "Shhh, don't be afraid. Didn't I say I was here to help you?"

_Liar._ Salt water as warm as the bath trickled down from his eyes. Tall Man was lying, just like everyone else did, saying dirty little sneaking words like crawling bugs. John felt himself guided along, shambling as though drunk, one cheek pressed against the clown chest, whole body leaning into it floppily. The journey seemed to take forever, but infinity was shorter than is used to be because he was still alive when he felt yielding softness under him. A while later there was softness over him as well, comfortably heavy and warm.

A hand ruffled his hair (Dad had done that once, before things went bad); one wrong-feeling thumb rubbed soothing circles over his temple. "Rest now."

He might have had issues with authority in the distant past, but now he was too drained to disobey.

John did as he was told, and drifted off to sleep.

o.O.o

"I heard that thing saved his life."

It had been five weeks since Sheppard disappeared, one week since the Wraith had refused to cooperate any further and less than an hour since Ronon's fifteenth attempt at persuading Dr Carter that if the thing wasn't going to help them, there was no point in keeping it alive. In retrospect – which Ronon had never really bothered with much; once something was over it was over – offering to keep its head for Sheppard when

_(if)_

he got back probably hadn't been a good idea.

He gripped the edges of his mess tray tighter, forcing himself to walk on by the gossiping bunch of marines. They were a new lot, barely here two months, and knew of Sheppard mostly by reputation and rumour.

In other words; they were an ignorant gaggle of _keka_ and knew fuck-all about what they were talking about.

Unfortunately the only free table was the one next to them. Ronon sat down and started on his sandwich, trying to figure out what it was. As a runner he had never really _wanted_ to know what he was eating, but here he figured it was safe. Besides, he could request stuff that way and there was a serving lady that always gave him seconds if he smiled at her to make her giggle–

"_I_ heard it drained him almost dry, but he wouldn't let anyone kill it."

"That's nuts. Anyway, he wouldn't be in charge if he was husked."

"It gave it all back. Harrison told me so when we were guarding it in McKay's lab. They had some sort of deal."

Something pungent and squishy oozed past Ronon's fingers. Smelt like fish. Maybe it was tuna? He'd eaten that once in pasta and hadn't liked it, but there was some whitish sauce in this one that was nice...

"C'mon, no-one makes deals with a Wraith."

"Well, the Colonel did. He escaped with it and made a deal and it gave back everything it took."

A chorus of mocking laughter and jeering then "No, he's right. I heard Major Lorne talking about it with that woman on Sheppard's team."

"I'm not sure I want to follow anyone that makes deals with Wraith," someone said darkly.

"That's not all..."

Ronon put down the sandwich.

"I heard when it gave him back his life it called him its brother."

He stood up. The marines, unaware, were gaping at their fount of knowledge, a muscle-bound man who still looked young enough not to care what happened when you gossiped about your CO.

Especially when Ronon Dex was listening to you.

"Now _that's_ a load off bullcrap," said one of the others. Ronon started to walk up behind them softly.

"No, I swear. It really did."

The third man nodded. "I heard the same thing. One of the nurses I dated was in the infirmary when Beckett checked him over afterwards. Brothers or worshippers, that's what it said."

There was a stunned silence. "_Jesus_, that's creepy," one said in an awed voice. Ronon was almost near enough...

The fount of all knowledge snorted in agreement. "Yeah, you said it. I mean, how do we know he hasn't been compromised? Brother or worshipper... either way, he'd be fighting on the side of the Wr–"

The marine never had a chance to finish his sentence, because that was when Ronon hauled him up to smack out his teeth in one punch.

o.O.o

John woke to an empty room and a pounding headache; he had some vague memory of warm water and a tiredness so deep it seemed almost a living thing, an Iratus Bug draining him with no pain or blood. For a moment the image was so real he pressed fingers to his neck, to the old scar like the faded hickey of a mutant vampire.

He shivered. _Vampire_ was a good enough description.

He looked around fearfully, wondering what had happened. He was back in the bed; his beard was gone – shaved? – and he was dressed in strange clothes. He pushed back the cottony duvet to look at them. Yes, new clothes, quite different in cut to his old pullover and pants, or even his BDUs. Made of some rich cloth, perhaps satin, but dark as a deep pond at midnight. He shifted slightly and saw it shimmer with hints of red and purple, like the wing of a tropical bird.

These were not the clothes of a prisoner. It worried him more than it reassured him. Being a prisoner was... bad, but it was real somehow in being a... a whatever... wasn't. He wasn't even sure he could be anything else than a prisoner anymore. He didn't know how to do it.

The door opened, making him scramble out of the bed and dart into the safety of his corner. Tall Man entered with food – a bowl of what looked like cottage pie – and smiled at him.

"Are you rested?"

John stared at him dumbly, not moving to collect the food as he had before. The pain in his head had come back, and bits of pieces of yesterday were filtering back to him, the strongest memory that of clown-glove hands that felt _wrong_.

Tall Man sat down on the floor cross-legged, the bowl still perfectly balanced. "You must be hungry. You slept longer than usual. It is past noon now."

The smell of the meat and vegetables made John's stomach rumble. Tall Man chuckled, but not unkindly. "Yes, very hungry. Come here and take your food then."

He was so accustomed to the other's presence he almost did just that, but wariness halted him, terror beating past the pain under his skull. Those fingers gripping the bowl were _wrong_ somehow, and it was all too easy to imagine them letting go to lunge for him, to grip and rip and tear.

John backed away.

"Now, you know you don't need to do that. Have I ever hurt you?"

_Not yet_, he wanted to say, but he wouldn't speak. He wasn't even sure if he could anymore. His throat seemed to be lined with broken glass, his tongue turned to a strip of dry foam.

"You have been hurt, yes? Those men hurt you. They beat you and injected poisons in your blood. Perhaps they did worse things. I am not like them. I am not going to do what they did. I promise you now, I will never hurt you or cause others to do you harm. As long as you are with me you are as safe as I am."

_Lies, lies, oh liar. _He would never be safe. Tall Man was going to get bored eventually, and hurt him to keep himself interested and he couldn't, he couldn't keep this up, he would grow weak eventually or drop his guard or fall asleep and then those hands would _take_ him...

_If I should die before I wake..._

"You are in no danger here. I have no weapons."

John coughed a laugh, then flinched and edged away a little more. Laughing was bad. You shouldn't laugh. It was rude, and you got smacked for it. And kicked and punched and whipped as well, if you had been especially disobedient.

"No punishments. I have nothing to punish you for." Tall Man sounded sorrowful, perhaps mourning the lack of reason to hurt. But why would he need a reason? Hurt just happened. "You have nothing to fear."

Lies again. When would he ever stop lying? Perhaps he was as mad as John was, a thought that made John snigger. Yes, he must be mad, to do this and lie and lie when the untruth was so obvious, so plain to see.

Tall Man sighed and stood. Yes, he was getting fed up now. He would send in the guards and stop this mad game and go back to the basics of pain. It was almost a relief, the waiting being over. Almost.

But instead of leaving or shouting he walked towards John, still holding the bowl, stopping just outside arms length from the cowering man, the frightened little doll. This was a new game, and he didn't know it, didn't like it.

_Stopitstopitstopit go AWAY!_

He put down the bowl, then squatted with his elbows on his knees, palms open and facing downwards. "Perhaps I have been impolite."

John blinked at him from his huddle, curled so tight he resembled a dead grub, or an unborn chick in its shell.

"I have demanded you trust me, yet I have not even told you my name. My apologies." He turned one palm towards John. "I am Ilu. Now..."

He wanted to howl, to run, to clap his hands over his ears and shout to drown out the fatal words he knew were coming, as inevitable as the tides. The liar had shown himself to be nothing more than that, nothing more than another Grumpy or Doc, and all his fragile hopes he had never admitted even to himself were dashed.

"... What is your name?"

John screamed.

o.O.o

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Radek could almost hear McKay berating him as he backtracked and re-read the mission report from P3Z-222, scrolling down towards the sentence he had barely registered. He could have excused himself by saying he was tired (he was) or hungry (he was that as well), but McKay would simply do that irritating finger-snap under Radek's nose and tell him not to be pathetic, that _he was a scientist_ and _he should be paying attention_.

It wasn't even a report connected with his current project, such as it was, the one labelled "Find John Sheppard Before McKay Kills Us All." It was the one McKay himself was helping with while studiously ignoring his save-the-galaxy-with-brilliant-nanite-re-programming scheme that was currently at a dead standstill. If it hadn't been for the fact that the Asurans were almost the same – caught up in running battles through most of Pegasus and unable to start burning more worlds _just_ yet – Radek knew Sam Carter would've been forcing both him and that _zatracený_ Wraith at gunpoint to get their _osli_ in gear and finish the coding... however long it took.

No-one except a lot of Wraith and a few robots was dieing, so they could afford to wait. The Intel analysists from the military had looked at the data and guessed the Wraith could tie up the Asurans for another two weeks or so, if they were lucky. For the first time in his life, Radek was rooting for the man-eating monsters.

Well. That was all background now he was reading Major Lorne's report. The Major hadn't even been looking for Sheppard – they had gone to the planet to investigate rumours of advanced tech being used and ended up running from a horde of screaming Wraith Worshippers. Radek had only skimmed through it because it had contained references to Ancient Ruins near the 'gate and he wanted to bookmark it for after

(_if_)

the Colonel was found, but one phrase had caught his eye, only to be hidden in his subconscious until his weary brain nudged him and pointed, _look_.

He drank the last of his coffee, jotted the paragraph down on a post-it note, and ran to find Dr Carter.

o.O.o

The tower trembled.

Of course this was nothing but a wistful fancy, a flight of imagination on the part of the one who sat alone and weary at its peak, a glass of sour nectar on the desk in front of him. Non-alcoholic, unfortunately; he would have welcomed the oblivion that strong drink brought but his body would not tolerate spirits. Normally the fear and horror pouring up from the guest room below would have been as intoxicating as strong liquor, and far sweeter, but he had glutted himself on it and was now worrying its provider was reaching the end of his limits.

The nightmares had come as soon as Ilu had made the offworlder sleep, an instinctive reaction to the man's panic attack brought about by Ilu's own poorly-worded question. The emotional explosion of sheer unadulterated _terror_ had almost overloaded his senses, and it had been a good few minutes before he had gathered his wits enough to pin the man's skull with his fingers and send him into a forced slumber.

Since then he had slept on and off, not leaving the bed even for food and refusing to eat unless ordered to, his slumber wracked with tormenting dreams. Despite the stew and soup Ilu watched slide down his throat he was losing weight, his eyes shadows with deep purple circles, the bones on his face standing out horribly. Or so he thought; the offworlder curled up and hid his face whenever Ilu drew closer than ten feet, his whole body managing to flinch while staying frozen in fear.

Another thread of aura drifted to him, sad and desolate as crying from a locked room.

The alien rose. It was time to end this.

o.O.o

John rode the bullet through a land of twisted shadow. Sometimes he was sinking in quicksand, but the granules were made of clutching hands and eyes that glittered an accusing blue; sometimes he fell from unknown heights as figures below grinned up with clown-sharp teeth, horrible in a gentle face made for laughing, dressed in the tatters of USA army uniform and a torn red shirt. In one he was attacked by a swarm of bugs, each of their heads mutated horribly into that of Ford's with mandibles and glittering cold black eyes, in another he was being fed on by the Wraith again, but the face he saw above him was his own.

He came to waking slowly, as though swimming through toxic sludge, and he was almost afraid to face the reality of nightmares rather than dreaming but someone was shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to the face of the Tall Man – _Ilu_ – and saw with dread the mouth open in a question.

His own lips parted in an answer, bittersweet with relief and sorrow. Relief that it was over, that he would finally be at peace; sorrow at this final loss of his integrity, the only thing he had left. But he was so tired. He just wanted it to end. Just wanted to... stop.

The word that left his mouth was the quieter side of a whisper. "John."

Eyes like silvered frost stabbed through him. "What?"

"J-John," he said, then started to cry softly, unable to stop, "John, John Sheppard, my name is John Sheppard, John Sheppard, John Sheppard..." He sobbed uncontrollably, the sounds cracked and floating up like shards of burning ice from the bottom of his soul, the endless litany circling through his mind.

Arms gathered the blankets around him, encircled his shoulders for the second time but they were comforting, not guiding, and he cried into them brokenly, washing his face with scalding tears that were oh so bitter. He no longer cared about his pride, because pride was not for once such as he, but for bright, brilliant people like Rodney and Ronon and Teyla. It was not for weak, pitiful little things like him. He felt the ball of Ilu's thumb brush away the salt water on his face and didn't flinch, not even when it moved upwards from one wet cheek to rub his tousled hair soothingly.

"Are you going to kill me now?" he murmured, because now they had what they wanted and he was worthless. He welcomed the thought of eternal darkness, rather than the possibility of further questions, further pain.

The arms held him tighter. "No. No, John. What happens next is up to you."

One long-fingered hand

(_like a Wraith's_ _like a Wraith's was but human..._)

appeared in front of him, palm upwards, fingers open and straight in a gesture of offering. "You may leave. I will not stop you. Or you might stay. I will not stop you then, either. But first you must take my hand."

He stared at it, at the palm creased with lines and the fingers perfectly clean, pale but healthy. This was his choice, his last call; not the betrayal of his pride, which had broken a long time a go and was worthless, but the simple act of choosing.

But he had nothing left to choose with. He was a doll, a puppet, a thing with no will of its own._ He didn't know what to do. _

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to be angry. Just take my hand."

He could feel his spine relaxing involuntarily under the soothing words, the soothing rhythm of the rubbing hand. They were gentle, comforting, and he hadn't known comfort in... so long. Even his head didn't hurt anymore.

"It's alright, John. I promise it will be alright. Just take my hand and I'll go. Or stay, if you want."

Comfort in the words and the arms that held him, as easily as they might have a child, embracing him and holding him close and protecting him from the pain and the whispering shadows in the corner. Rocking him gently, shielding him from the nightmares. A hand stroked his hair, bringing back memories of his parents when everything had been all right and no-one had shouted or been angry and nothing had been his fault.

"I'm here. It's okay now."

His heart squeezed shut in apprehension, hope strangled by despair to be reinforced with trust and beaten down with doubt, and he wanted so _badly_, so very badly to believe it that he couldn't decide what to do.

"Everything's going to be alright, I promise."

His hand snaked out from under the blankets of its own accord in the end.

"Just take my hand, John."

And when it happened it was _easy_; simple and quick and painless. He took the other's hand, and nothing happened except the embrace grew warmer, more reassuring.

"Do you want me to leave, John?"

_Yes_ screamed the sane part, the part that lived in darkness and faced the pain stubbornly. _No_, screamed the rest, looking into the shadows and cowering in fear.

"I, I, I, I _can't_..." He started to sob dryly, his whole body shaking with fear and need. Ilu rocked him gently, a murmured stream of soft words flowing through him and around him.

"Shhh, it's alright. Do you want me to leave?"

_Get out, John... go home... before it's too late... _

"... No."


	6. Breaking and Being Broken: Chapter 5

Sam smoothed out the crinkled paper, the rustle of it stretching flat like a susurration, whispers of what it held; hope, and its brother fear.

Small nails crimped the edges, digging in to ridges like the mountain ranges of insects, the whorls on her fingertips rasping at the edge of hearing like the sea breaking on a dangerous shore.

"You should have told me sooner." Petty and bitter, or perhaps bitter but not so much petty. The speaker had reason for his anger.

"I had my doubts about telling you at all, Rodney," she said bluntly. "It isn't conclusive. Radek – Dr Zelenka – said himself that this was clutching at straws."

Rodney McKay looked over her desk, the desk of the dead woman before her, and said nothing for a moment. She could see dark splotches under his eyes like ink, his skin sagging along with his shoulders, and knew he hadn't been sleeping, had only been eating enough to keep himself alive. Whatever anger she felt for him had long ago be drowned in the cruel kindness of pity.

"Sam..." He never called her _Dr Carter_ but behind her back. She had an idea why, but said nothing of it. "All we've been doing for the last _month_, for _more_ than a month now, is clutch at straws. You said these people talked about an agreement with the raiders?"

"They might not be the same raiders," she reminded him, "but yes. Some sort of... pact that involved the Wraith." It had only been in passing, a disheartened comment by Major Lorne thrown off almost as an afterthought... before Parrish had managed to insult their 'gods' and set the whole village on them.

His face drained of what little colour it had. "You think Sheppard might have captured? By the Wraith?"

"I can't think anything at the moment, Rodney," Sam evaded, although in her secret, darkest depths that was exactly what she thought. It would be suitably ironic for Pegasus, suitably FUBAR, as Jack might have put it.

"But he might have been and... oh God, they've had him for over a month. A _month_. They might have put him in a cocoon or fed on him or–"

"Rodney!" He was panicking. Hell, _she_ was panicking. It was all too easy to imagine what he was talking about. "Anything's possible, but let's not jump to conclusions. The raiders who took him were human, so we'll work on the assumption he's still in their hands." Sam sighed and said wryly, "It's not as if we can't reverse the feeding process when we get him back... _if_ the Wraith have him. I don't think our guest would refuse." _Not if he knows what's good for him_, she added mentally. If nothing else she could send Ronon down to persuade him.

"I'm sending Teyla back to the village," she carried on. "She's a native of Pegasus, she'll fit in better, and they haven't seen her before with us. She's confident that she can find out when the next Wraith appearance will be."

Rodney looked at her with eyes that burned with almost violent hope. "And then what?"

She offered him a bleak smile. "And then we'll start finding more straws."

o.O.o

John bathed himself in blood.

The fire's warmth contrasted with the cold outside; through the window a gust scattered snowflakes against the frozen panes, the first blizzard of the winter howling in futile rage. The flames cackled back jeeringly, taunting their foe from the safety of their grey stone home. More flakes batted against the glass with faint _splats_, but it only served to make the fire cackle more, the sparks reach higher to spread more warmth. John shivered gloriously and leant further into the old stuffed armchair, the soft squashy padding yielding delightfully.

A hand rested on top of his head, fingers carding through his hair, making him close his eyes in contentment. They stroked almost absently, as though it was the fur of a cat they felt under their tips instead of the hair of a grown human. The man he had been might have resented this bitterly, but that man had long since been buried, perhaps even killed before the coffin lid was nailed down. In either case, John was safe as could be from his unwelcome protests that might spoil the shelter he had found here.

He watched as the flames twisted higher, and smiled.

o.O.o

Later that night John curled up in his bed, his own bed, letting Ilu pull the covers up in spite of the fact he could have easily done it himself, and had. But the gesture of protectiveness and kindness made him feel wonderfully safe, as he felt knowing that Ilu would stay with him until he fell asleep, caressing the nape of his neck or his back, or just watching over him. Sometimes John thought his new friend

(_master_)

stayed the whole night, because he was always there as dawn first broke.

He burrowed down and hugged the special blanket to him; the one Ilu had taken from his own bed to calm John's irrational fears of being alone. It smelt of its owner, like old books and new ink, and he never failed to bury his face in it before sleeping. It kept the nightmares away.

Ilu rubbed circles into the joint between his spine and neck bone. "Sleep well, John."

John relaxed into his touch, and let it abduct him from waking.

o.O.o

Evan Lorne licked dry lips, torn halfway between cursing and praising his mission here. It was horribly dangerous, and had been strictly volunteer-only (although every squad of marines and quite a few scientists as well had put their hands up, himself included), but it might, _might_ bring back Sheppard... if they could pull it off.

The chevrons lit up with harsh clangs. He could hear Zelenka gulping beside him, although too far away for a quick whisper of reassurance. He respected the physicist's courage and knew he'd hold up, but this wasn't really any place for a scientist.

But Zelenka had volunteered. Like him. He respected _that_ as well.

The 'gate whooshed to life and Lorne shouted "_Now!_"

The shout made Lt Miller let go at the same time as his team leader, releasing the ropes they held and dropping a weighted lead net half the scientists had been working day and night in front of the 'gate like a curtain. It unfurled almost beautifully, clacking as it did, then violently bulged outwards as the unfortunate dart slammed into it and tore it off almost instantly.

Thrown off kilter by the unexpected weight the ship swung sideways, careening wildly as both groups of marines started blasting at it with all the ammo they had. Bullets ripped through living tissue, tearing great chunks away, shredding the engines and most of the canopy. It coughed black smoke and seemed to almost shudder in midair, before spiralling downwards like an insane sycamore seed and crashing hard enough to throw up a fountain of dirt.

For a moment shocked silence made every human in range pause, then the marines started forward at a run. The canopy as already opening slowly, as though the ship felt pain and was wincing as it moved; Lorne grimaced at the thought and pulled Zelenka behind him for protection.

The pilot never really stood a chance. As soon as the marines were in range they opened fire on the figure inside, its movements disjointed and slow as a man doped on something heavy-duty and highly illegal. It jerked a few times under the sheer weight of fire, then flopped forward belching black ichor. Lorne put a few rounds through its head just to make sure – he didn't trust a Wraith to stay dead.

The humans gathered around their prize in a ragged circle, as children might approach a fallen giant in a fairy tale. Lorne shivered into the cool spring air, then flicked his hand forward twice.

The circle closed in all the way.

o.O.o

The blizzard had died at last, after two days of tantrums and violent sulks, the world turned to a sugar-frosted white below an achingly blue sky. John stared and dreamed of flying, of breaking free from the placental sac of atmosphere that cradled the world, and touching the stars.

Sometimes he flew on huge white wings; sometimes in a ship like a golden bullet. Sometimes he had nothing but himself but he still flew, soaring like a will-o'-the-wisp with no body, no attachment to the weary earth.

Those were the times Ilu had to work, mixing chemicals in a room that stank of fireworks. John would stay in there and help now and then, passing bottles or writing out labels, but mostly he just sat in front of the ever-burning fire and stared out the window to dream. At those intervals he would remember Atlantis, all golden spires and light, and perhaps even some of the faces he had known there. On a few occasions he had even managed to put names to those faces, but they passed as soon as he looked at them straight, like mist over a lake.

He never remembered when Ilu was near. He didn't care.

o.O.o

The last time Radek had had to work on a dart it was because the corporeal presence of Lt Cadman had been trapped inside. Her _incorporeal_ presence, of course, had been hanging around McKay's brain – and wasn't _that_ the stuff of nightmares for any woman – but he had managed to end the ordeal for both of them... eventually.

Rooting around the mostly organic insides – a very _apt_ term – was as disgusting as he remembered. There were times he sympathised with McKay's habit of delegating the donkey work to his underlings, however annoying that was, because there was no _way_ he would be doing this if he was in charge. It was almost as bad as clambering inside the cockpit, which was cramped, smelt of burnt sausages and had... bits in it. Things tended to splatter a little when you emptied P90 rounds into them, and some of those bits were unpleasantly sticky or squished nastily. They'd done their best to clean the seat but...

"_Hey!" _There was a muffled banging on the side of the cockpit. _"Who's in there?" _

He clambered up and stuck his head out of the top. A red-faced Rodney McKay – who had declared himself in charge of this little enterprise – had his head tilted back like precarious tomato with hair.

"_Co si přejete?_What?" he asked sourly. McKay had been a pain the _prdel_ ever since they had got the dart back to Alpha Site, elbowing Radek aside and managing things _personally_. _Personally_ meaning he'd already sent one of the biochemists back in tears. Radek knew his possibly-maybe-on-a-good-day friend was feeling the strain of Sheppard's disappearance, but it made things no easier when working with a stressed and pissed off Rodney McKay.

"Wash out your mouth with soap," McKay admonished. He always assumed every word Radek said in his native tongue was an insult, possibly because it frequently was. "You missed me calling from the laptop. The data was downloaded five minutes–" he checked his watch "–seven minutes ago now. Do you want to see it or not?"

"_Ano, ano, počkejte chvíli__._ Let me shut it down." Radek ducked back inside and shut off the remaining power – not much; he swore sometimes he could almost _see_ the energy leaking from every bullet hole in this accursed contraption – and swung himself out. McKay was already sitting at one of the makeshift tables (courtesy of a couple of crates) in their make-shift lab, which had started life as a field. They were still getting dirty looks from the marines they had turfed out while playing football.

Streams of information scrolled down like a bad _Matrix_ remake, too fast for Radek to make out what it said. McKay seemed equally as baffled, but he tried his luck anyway. "What is it?"

"Well it's... actually, we're not sure yet."

Radek almost tore out his hair. "You call me away from my work for this then tell me you _don't know what it is_?"

"We're getting there," McKay said defensively. "It's just a load of numbers and letters, but the thing is we're not sure what they're all _for_, so we can't isolate what we need – the log readings of this Planet of the Raiders. To be perfectly honest we're having enough trouble just setting up an interface that humans... can... actually... use..."

He trailed off, his mouth open in a small O, then snapped his fingers and jumped up. Radek gaped as he snatched up the laptop and started to elbow his way out.

"What?" he shouted at McKay's retreating back. "_What?_"

o.O.o

"Um... we need a teeny-tiny favour."

There were so many things wrong with this situation Rodney wasn't sure where to start. Well, starting with the fact it was a _Wraith_ he was talking to would be a good one. A freaking _Wraith_ for crying out loud; he was fond of telling Zelenka one could never account for _all_ the variables in a situation, and oh boy wasn't _that_ phrase coming around to bite him on the ass. This wasn't just a variable, this was a cataclysmic rip in reality...

Second to that was the fact he was asking, no, _begging_ the Big Scary Man-Eating Monster to help him, which would be a first. The begging, not the Man-Eating Monster (well _yes_, the Monster as well, but that was almost incidental). He, Meredith Rodney McKay, was begging. For _help_. He hadn't _asked_ for help, even nicely, since the age of six, and _that_ wasn't even to do with science. On the other hand, it had been a very big tree.

Thirdly, he was squirming under its gaze like a first-year student trying to explain to their tutor why they hadn't done their assignment, which was ridiculous because it was handcuffed and behind a forcefield, not to mention guarded by four uncomplicated men with big guns. So there was no reason for him to be shuffling from foot to foot, or sweating like an ice cube in a sauna.

Its weird, gravelly voice made his spine crawl. "I assume this is in aid of John Sheppard's discovery?"

Rodney was surprised, although he knew he shouldn't have been. It was extraterrestrial, not retarded. "Um, yes. We need your, uh, native expertise. For our dart. Um. We think Sheppard might have been taken by Wraith."

It gave the impression of raising an eyebrow it did not, in fact, have. "That would be... fortunate. If he is still alive of course."

"_Fortunate?_" Rodney spluttered. "Have you lost what's left of that rotting lump of tissue you called a brain? How is Sheppard being _taken_ and _put in a cocoon_ and, and_ fed on_ fortunate?"

The look it shot at him was one that their subject matter would have recognised immediately as 'McKay Thinks You're An Idiot'. "I still have considerable standing among my, ah, _brethren_," it drawled with a mixture of sarcastic venom and patronising honey. "Securing his release would be far easier if he is in their captivity. And if they do not agree..." it rubbed the fingertips of its feeding hand together dryly, "they can be... _persuaded_."

Rodney almost rolled his eyes. Melodrama. "Yeah, yeah, if he turns out to be in a hiveship somewhere we will definitely let you do your Genghis Khan impression on them –" and wasn't _that_ a nice thought. He might even bring popcorn. "– but first we need to _find_ him."

It tilted its head, then offered a typically creepy Wraith smile. It looked like well-fed cat, or a shark that had just seen a likely surfer. "Naturally."

There was a pause, then what was left of Rodney's limited patience snapped. "Is that a yes or not? An answer _before_ the end of the known universe would be nice."

It inclined its head. "It is a yes."

o.O.o

At about the same time a Wraith walked into Alpha Site and froze a field full of scientists to the ground Ilu was admiring his latest pet, who was fast asleep curled up around an old blanket he had no more use for, utterly relaxed and peaceful. He was stroking its tousled hair slightly with the tips of his fingers, running them down along its exposed temple and rubbing slow circles into the pale skin.

With each caress the bonds he was building in its mind were becoming steadily stronger, more pervasive. Already it grew ill if separated from him too long, its movements listless, its eyes dull. Soon it would be _truly_ dependent on him, for everything from food to its continued mental health.

Ilu smiled.

This was by far the most engaging pet he had had in a long while. Its emotions were delicious even when at peace, its happiness at being with him like a draught of sweet nectar, its fear when he left savoury as hot blood. He had fun playing with it secretly, letting it sit by his feet in the evenings and leaving when it drowsed off in front of the fire, waiting for it to wake and panic before returning to its desperate greeting.

He was thinking of keeping it after his plan was fully realised. Originally Ilu had planned for it to simply be killed with its master (_former master_, he thought with relish), or perhaps sold on after he had managed to destroy the creature for good. But how much more fun would it be to keep him, to look on him afterwards and remember the sweetness of his victory, the final glut of death from the only being to ever escape him?

Or perhaps he would keep that parasite alive for a while, visit with its old worshipper walking docilely at his heels to show how it had finally lost everything. Perhaps even he would not kill it himself, but allow his new pet to do it. That would an irony worthy of great joy, and he revelled in the thought.

Really, there were so many ways he could do this he was spoilt for choice.

His pet sighed and turned in its sleep, a slight frown creasing its forehead. He caught the drift of murky dreams rising from its mind, images of bloody sand and torn flesh making it whimper uneasily in its sleep. Ilu rubbed its temple a little harder, dispersing the nightmare as he might have tatters of mist, the smile touching his lips widening slightly as his pet calmed down and sighed in contentment.

It was healing nicely, the sores almost gone, its hand nearly whole again due to the self-made medicines he had been slipping into its food. It was still bony despite all the treats he spoilt it with, but that would soon be cured at his current rate of indulgence.

Ilu stroked its temple once more gently, then let himself drift into the lightest of dozes.

All was going according to plan.

o.O.o

The Wraith equivalent of Genghis Khan or not, that damn thing worked fast. Of course he had the advantage of his species, age and Rodney McKay (who was worth more than both of those put to together, thank you very much), but still. Rodney's own dislike of it was starting to be tempered with a healthy respect, although that didn't mean he was going to start going any nearer to it than was absolutely necessary. He was fine a good five feet away from it at least, or more to the point well out of range of its feeding hand. He _was_ a genius after all.

All of the other scientists were keeping their distance. Everyone had scattered like rabbits before a fox as soon as the Wraith was spotted, much to the amusement of said Wraith and, admittedly, Rodney McKay. He was sure there were semi-admiring looks being shot his way because of his badass-ness in voluntarily staying that close to his alien assistant, and he was basking in it even as he assured himself that he didn't give a damn what they thought, that he never cared what anyone thought of him. If he ever had, it had long been burnt away by life.

Still, it _was_ nice to be appreciated for a change.

Currently the Wraith was growling under its breath absently, almost like someone humming while working but not as cheerful – it sounded like a kennel full of dogs when a cat walks through. Evidently the data it was getting from the interface wasn't pleasing it.

Rodney tried to ignore it, although that growling was getting on his nerves, making him think there was a large, nasty animal nearby (and there _could_ be; it would just his luck if some crazy, rabid monster from this planet decided for a Scientist Happy Meal when he _was_ still stuck here). The skin on his back kept trying to crawl around to his front.

"This is incorrect," the Wraith said suddenly, pointing at the screen. Rodney walked over with outward confidence, inwardly keeping a close eye on both manacled hands. Hello, _genius_. He'd seen what those things could do; he wasn't about to forget that body-bag with Wallace in it any time soon. "There is no such letter in our alphabet."

It was pointing at a scrolling river of translated words, one long fingernail tapping at the word_ Wer_, the translation _'to turn'?_ underneath in highlighted letters. As Rodney watched mutely it scrolled up and calmly rewrote the word as _Oer_.

"We've always been able to use that letter before," Rodney said defensively.

"We keep it in our addresses. And the two letters are very similar." It went on to describe phonetics and the evolution of Wraith language, while Rodney (whose knowledge of language stopped at high school grammar lessons) nodded and played along as patiently as possible (his hindbrain still insisted despite the handcuffs and guards that keeping the Wraith sweet was conductive to his good health) before butting in.

"I thought your language was derived from the Ancients," he blurted, instantly regretting it as a pair of cold, slitted eyes pinned him like a bug on a board. A very small, annoying bug.

"Loosely," the Wraith said in a voice edged in frost. "We had our own tongue before we even knew what Lanteans were. We now have three."

"Er..." Good God, they never did anything small, did they? As if one language wasn't enough for any species. "Really?"

"The first is indeed derivative of your predecessors. It is used for common data. Important data and speech, however, is entirely our own."

"Um, and the third language...?"

It didn't deign to answer. Rodney might not have been the most tactful of people, but he knew when to shut up. His regard for the hither-to despised language majors went up a notch, though, if only because they had to put up with this crap _all the time_. Rodney made a mental note (soon forgotten) to be nicer to them in future.

Trying to shake off the chilly feeling in his spine he pointed at the offending word. "Was that actually an efficient use of your time, or were you just trying to put one up on the stupid humans?"

It snorted scornfully, as if to say _Doesn't take much_. "Hardly. The difference is very important."

"Huh." _Yeah, right. _"So what does it _mean_?"

It turned away and started tapping at the keyboard again. Something about it – something strange – made Rodney look at it a little more closely, seeing gradually (as he might have seen shapes in clouds) the tenseness of the muscles underneath that leather-clad back, the odd tilt of its head forward like the lowered head of a wolf at bay. Then he realised what he was seeing with a jolt.

It was afraid.

The Wraith carried on scrolling down, but its speech belayed the forced casualness of its tone.

"It is our word for _danger_."

o.O.o

John had almost forgotten the concept of danger, at least in any real sense. As a sheep in a pen might forget the wolves that had hunted it through the summer, or a chicken in a battery cage forget about foxes, so he had let his knowledge of risk and peril, _real_ perils, pass from his life.

Ilu was with him. Ilu protected him. He had promised safety, that there would be no more danger, no more death or pain.

John believed him.

More than that, he _trusted_ him. He, John Sheppard, trusted Lord

(_master_)

Ilu. It was frightening and beguiling, but wonderful as well, like shooting stars or the sight of a knife-edged mountain through misty clouds. He had thought he would never trust again after his

(_team family friends_)

betrayers had left him to rot in the darkness of the cells, either ignorant or uncaring of his pain. But Ilu was neither. Ilu cared, and John could swear that Ilu saw everything, knew everything – even, sometimes, his very thoughts.

The idea of that before would have shuddered, drawing darkness over his mind to hide his feelings and keep his privacy _private_. Now he accepted it, even welcomed it. He had nothing to hide and, more importantly, nothing to fear

(_everything to fear look at his eyes look at his hands oh god run before he sees_)

thanks to Ilu. He owed the Lord everything.

John yawned and edged closer to the fire, hearing the faint scurrying sound of Ilu's pen scratching into paper above him. The days were getting ever colder

(_his eyes oh look at his eyes_)

with the oncoming winter, and this morning he had woken to frost patterns in the window panes, like the web of some freezing spider, or fossil ferns in the Arctic. It made him remember a place from a long time ago, when he had flown

(_want to fly again_)

through blinding white clouds above a frozen world, his whole life nothing more than a passing wisp of frozen fog. So much better to be here, in the warm, letting the heat of the flames melt away the last of those horrible memories.

John could almost feel them dissolving sometimes, becoming nothing more than the worthless images they were. He forgot other things as well, vague things that stank of blood and felt like violence, movements that brought death in their wake. One was startlingly clear; a picture of himself and another

(_teyla_)

facing each other in poses of respect, each hand filled with polished wood that was almost a part of him, movements flitting like the steps of a beautiful dance. But then it would all be ruined and there would be pain, or he would fall, and the dance would dissolve into chaos.

Better to forget.

John yawned again, then half-shut his eyes and watched shards of broken fire spiral up the chimney.

o.O.o

That night the dreams came back for the first time in days, flickering on and off like light trying to pierce the canopy of a wind-swept forest. Most of it was bad – Doc looming over him with a needle in his hand, Dopey's fist flying towards his face, Grumpy turning to face him with his knotted whip held read, a grin stretching his face into a clown's mask. And the dead, always the dead, watching him through mouldering eyes that still stared reproachfully even as they sagged and wobbled over their cheeks.

These all melted away to nothing as soon as they appeared, reappearing and melting again until finally they dispersed for good. Except one.

The Wraith was wavering as though projecting through a layer of murky water, but it was holding on far longer than the others had been able to. Its mouth opened and closed puppet-like, no sound coming out except as a whisper of thought.

(_Where?_)

He backed away, the landscape shifting under his feet from desert to forest. He was old and tired and his chest burned like fire, but he was free. He was escaping from Kolya and–

_No! Lies!_

The desert came back but the forest lay beneath it, the double-image making his eyes water. It was the Wraith, he realised. The Wraith was bringing the forest with it, to make him remember. To make him _weak_.

(_Where?_)

_Go away!_

(_Where?_)

_Ilu!_

It flinched at the name, starting to fade out of existence.

(_Come back._)

He ignored it and shouted again. _Ilu!_ He could feel the response, like a warm blanket being laid over his mind. The Wraith was already nearly transparent.

(_Do not trust him he is–_)

Then it was gone, driven away as a cockroach was by light, and the blanket was warm and heavy over John, a solid comfort in the insubstantial world.

He fell back into the soothing warmth, and the dreams could not touch him.

o.O.o

When he woke the next morning it was to a brilliant blue sky and Ilu's gentle smile. After a long breakfast of something like hot sausage soup and fruit juice, his benefactor asked gently if he wanted to go outside.

John paused. He truly wasn't sure. On the one hand it was warm and safe in here, while outside was the unknown, was Doc and his ilk, was _pain_. The walls around him were far more than cold grey stone; they were a shield and a shelter, his protection from the past.

But they weren't, were they? It was Ilu who was that.

"Are you coming with me?" he whispered timidly. Ilu smiled his kind smile, and nodded.

"If you want me to."

Foolish question. He could no more stand to be parted from Ilu now than he could from one of the arms or legs. Terror had been banished by soft strokes and the warmth of the fire, but a little worm of doubt had stayed and wriggled its way through the soft jelly of his brain. It whispered of abandonment and isolation, of his frailty alone.

"Please," he said softly, and that was that.

Ilu stayed with him a little longer – he always knew when John was feeling particularly scared or fragile – then left for a short while. It wasn't long, but it was still long enough, and by the time Ilu came back John was pale and shaking, practically flying off the bed into his arms. After a few moments in his embrace John grew calmer, and was able to put on the clothes Ilu had brought from the store cupboard.

Thick woollen pants, a padded tunic, a cloak and boots trimmed with fur and mittens of some suede-liked material. All of the items were well made, the tunic and cloak lined with silk, the fur of some rich dark brown creature almost like sable. Wearing it was almost like carrying the fire around inside him, which cheered John up a little. He started to look forward to seeing what it was like outside.

The journey down was long but not arduous; he peeked in quick glances as he descended, seeing room after room of strange things. One was lined with shelves that had slots cut into them, in each of which was a scroll like a pigeon roosting in a nest. In another were sills lined with books, hundreds of them, then a room with stuffed animals and another full of jars and labels, then yet another like a fancy dining area with crystal ornaments and lanterns made from lemon-coloured glass...

The door at the bottom was like all the others, stone bound with iron, but bigger than most. When it swung open with a careless push of Ilu's hand the cold hit him like an ice wall despite the warm clothes, making him shiver deep in his bones. Little pink flowers burst across his skin like the healing sores, and frost feathered in his eyelashes. The snow still falling, deep enough to reach the tops or his fur-lined boots, but it was drifting down slowly instead of screaming through the air.

The area looked like a sort of courtyard made from the backs of the surrounding buildings, the centre dominated by a fountain that had frozen all the way to its stone foundations, the still water still cupped along its carved rim like mirrored glass. The snow on the ground was almost downy, like a lamb's back, and crunched when John stepped in it cautiously. It was a delightful sound, like something he couldn't remember that tasted of happiness

(_snowball fights and dave's eyes glowing with joy_)

and filled his veins with sizzling energy, popping like little firecrackers. He grinned hugely, then laughed for no reason and it felt _good_.

Ilu smiled at his laughter, enjoying his elation. He let John scoop up handfuls of snow in his gloved hands, uncaring of what the water was going to the material, squashing it into lumpy ball shapes and juggling it from hand to hand like a circus performer, laughing as he did. It seemed like the _right_ thing to do.

Eventually of course the cold soaked through his damp gloves and made his fingers burn, then numb, and he got tired of playing with the snowballs. Then Ilu led him back inside, to a meal of roasted fowl and vegetables with a hot drink that made him think of

(_marshmallows_)

something sweet and squishy, but syrupy as well. It went right down to his toes and made him grin again, this time in lazy contentment as the sugar hit his blood. Ilu gave him sweets afterwards, the ones orange-yellow ones he liked. He always felt a bit dreamy afterwards, but utterly content, so it was a small price to pay. He paid it lightly enough, without even a thought that he should care what they did. They made him feel good; wasn't that enough?

(_no_)

He ignored the little voice, barely more than a whisper of a sigh. It wasn't important. It would die soon anyway.

Then things were normal again; he helped Ilu in his special lab until evening, then dozed in front of the fire until bed and slept safe in the knowledge that Ilu was watching over him.

(_do not trust him he is–_)

He stirred uneasily until Ilu's fingers combed through his hair, splaying tendrils of energy through his mind.

The voices vanished, this time for good.

o.O.o

Things were either getting better or weirder, or possibly both. Better certainly, because they were making progress – the dart had yielded thirty different addresses so far, and the Wraith said there were probably more tucked away in a backup system somewhere. Of course since they were all presumably to Wraith friendly planets no teams could be sent through just yet, but they were working on cracking this weird 'second language' that most of the planet descriptions seems to be stored as, so it probably wouldn't be long before they found an approximate description of 'Planet Containing Primitive Primates With Needle Guns, Kill In Various Horrible Ways On Sight'.

Well, probably not the last bit. But he was still allowed to _hope_.

But things are getting weirder as well, or at least Rodney thought so. His various associates – most of whom seemed to be living proof that humans indeed evolved from a bunch of tree-dwelling monkeys that started walking upright because they were too thick to hold on to branches – couldn't see it but he could. Probably. Maybe.

The Wraith was starting to freak him out a little. Yesterday, during one of the infrequent periods it slept, it had been muttering something too low to hear, and when Rodney had banged on the outside of its makeshift cell it had shot him a look upon waking so venomous he actually stepped backwards. Since then it had been working twice as hard and three times as long, rummaging through the 'gate addresses like something possessed...

No. Rodney had been thinking about this and had reached his own conclusion. It rummaged through the 'gate addresses like someone trying to _appear_ hurried but actually – what?

That was the question. It was a damn sight edgier than it had been before that odd nap, and a lot less focused. Twice he had caught it staring into the distance (much, although he would never admit it, as he had done when he was still trying to crack the nanite code after Sheppard's disappearance), and once it had even snarled at the guards, which it had _never_ been stupid enough to do before. It had almost got itself _shot_, despite having a level of basic survival instincts even Rodney found impressive. One of those basics being you didn't piss off people with projectile weapons and twitchy fingers.

It just seemed like... it didn't care anymore. That it was just filling time until... until...

The _until_ was starting to worry him. He didn't like _until_ when it was connected with Wraith. It caused too many problems.

The thing was he couldn't prove any of this. Nor could he send the Wraith back just because it was getting edgy, because there were plenty of reasons it would be, starting from having guns pointed at it every waking minute and going up. Maybe he was just misreading it; maybe it was just going through a very quiet version of a Wraith freak-out or stress disorder. Rodney suddenly had a mental image of the Wraith stretched out on a leather sofa with a mad version of Dr Phil leaning forward and saying "_Now, tell me about your dreams."_

Uh. Bad thought.

An even worse thought occurred to him. Suppose it snapped under the pressure and did something nutty, like trying to take down four marines at once or smashing up the dart or attacking innocent bystanders–

"Dr McKay."

Rodney very nearly shrieked like a girl at the sound of that gravelly voice by his ear. When he had recovered enough to make sure he wasn't about to have a heart attack he turned, back up a little – would it kill Wraith to learn about personal space? – and snapped "_What?_"

Far from being annoyed at his tone, the Wraith looked amused, like a German Sheppard looking down at a yapping Chihuahua. Jerk. "I have managed to extract every 'gate address from the databank."

"Oh. Okay." He tried to gather together some marbles. "Any, er, descriptions?" Apart from _danger_, which was worrying him a little. Anything the Wraith thought dangerous should probably be left alone, at least until he could find a match for the address in Atlantis's computers.

"No." Rodney saw its expression and immediately thought _liar_. He might be a terrible poker player – he couldn't seem to get the face right – but he'd learnt a few things. Nobody looked that deadpan unless they were hiding a big win up their sleeve.

If it read his thoughts on his face it gave nothing anyway, and he didn't push the subject further. Better to wait and see. "Then _why_ are you here bothering me? Go and do something useful. Something over _there_."

It followed his pointing finger docilely – strike two, Wraith _never_ did anything docilely – and sat back down at the interface. Rodney waited until it was tapping away peacefully, then picked up his laptop full of downloaded files on flight techniques, and sat behind it... where he could read its screen.

Thus began a game of silent watch-the-Wraith. Rodney tapped away, using the translator the language majors had set up to create his patented manual interface in half the usual time, while in front of him the Wraith scrolled through various files, cross-referenced some, highlighted others, and always seemed to come back to the same one...

Rodney squinted behind it, trying to read a screen half-hidden by a very large and leather-clad shoulder.

P...P3Z...P3Z-2...

It stared at the screen as though memorising the address, burning the letters and numbers into its brain.

P3Z-212.

It stared a little longer, the highlighted the file, clicked at the top of the screen... and pressed delete.

Rodney gaped. The _bastard_. It had actually...

It glanced around quickly, so quick Rodney almost didn't notice, then brought up the backup systems and started running a new program. Rodney would bet any chances of a Nobel Prize that it was eradicating P3Z-212 from the databanks completely. It _really_ didn't want them to know about this planet.

_So what's on there? Wraith lab? Secret base? Holy Grail? What?_

No... Rodney would bet _again_, this time with his remaining chocolate power bars, that it had something to do with that little tag it had corrected. _Danger_. You didn't put hazard stickers all over something you used regularly – probably not, anyway. Something dangerous for a Wraith it didn't want them to know about...

_Maybe something the Ancients left behind. A weapon. But no, if they knew about it why didn't they destroy it? Unless... they couldn't..._

But then why would its address be in a dart's databank anyway? The pilot had been a drone, an errand boy... a scoop-'em-up-and-fly guy. If Bob had been anything to go by, then scouting out a dangerous area required someone with marginally more brains.

The Wraith was getting edgy again, flicking its head up, taking in the positions of the marines, then looking down again. Surely, surely they would notice? Or maybe not. It was the small hours of the morning, they were ending their shift soon, they would be tired... off-guard...

Its head tilted momentarily towards the one closest, near the dart. With a stunner in his belt. He looked half-asleep.

_Why did it memorise the address?_

_Because it wants to go there,_ Rodney's hindbrain whispered. _It's running. And you're the only one who knows. _

It got up slowly, its wrists still cuffed together, and moved towards the dart silently. His throat felt dry as sandpaper, and twice as rough. The cool night air was frosty against his heated skin, but he couldn't even reach up to wipe the sweat away. Oh god, had it paralysed him with its mind? Could they do that without looking at you? Rodney could see what was about to unfold almost as if he had watched it on a movie once, but he might as well have been a statue – dumb and unmoving.

It idled closer to the cockpit and the guarding marine, like it had done a hundred times before. The soldier – he looked barely old enough to drink – twitched his gun up but sluggishly, without any real intent. It was just the big dumb Wraith that let itself get shouted at by McKay all day, after all. And from that angle, he couldn't see what Rodney could, the hand drifting slowly away from its body...

The stunner was grabbed so quickly even Rodney didn't see it; like the draw of a cowboy on some spaghetti western it moved too fast for the eye to follow. The sound of the shot was muffled by the close proximity of the two, the movement hidden by their bodies, so for several crucial seconds the other three marines didn't realise what was going on. A second marine went down in those vital moments, then the rattle of P90 fire split the night open.

The Wraith ducked behind the dart, fired again – missed – fired a fourth time and clipped a third marines on the arm, probably numbing it to the bone. A fifth shot hit him in the face, the a sixth hit his companion in the belly and the Wraith was turning to McKay...

"_No, Jesus, wait! I can help you!_"

The words were instinctive and utterly meaningless – he had no idea what it even _wanted_ – but they made the Wraith pause, the stunner still held down by its hip, handcuffs clinking. Several holes had pierced its leather coat, leaking black fluid like oil.

"How?" it asked, the question Rodney had been dreading. But he couldn't just let it go. They _needed_ it, damn it, they needed what it knew about the Replicators. Already he could hear shouts from the base nearby, and approaching lights. He had only one card to play.

"P3Z-212," he said simply, as if that said everything. Maybe it did, because the Wraith started slightly, then eyed him with an odd expression.

"You have no idea of the risk," it said, almost sadly. But Rodney had no time to ponder on that; the lights were getting closer and the Wraith was getting twitchier. Without the stunner muzzle wavering from its aim at Rodney's chest, it bent down and grabbed at the nearest marine's belt metal jangling as it extracted keys and started to free itself.

"I don't think you do either," he replied as it straightened, the handcuffs falling away with a _clank_. It snorted softly, with the faintest hint of scorn.

"I know more than you could possibly understand."

If _that_ wasn't a challenge he didn't know what was. "Try me," Rodney said a little defensively, his hindbrain screaming at him to shut up. Too late. The Wraith was already swinging into the cockpit, a few bullets whizzing past its head like maddened hornets, the ship was rising into the air almost gracefully, shining silver-gold by the light of the four moons.

Rodney watched it leave with something almost disappointment, almost relief. He'd be mad to want to go with a Wraith but still... they did need it. He was just starting to think _I might need to ask Zelenka for help after all _when someone yelled "McKay, get outa there!" and a brilliant white flash swallowed his world.

o.O.o

The next thing he saw was red. Blood-red, the dirty crimson of open wounds and sunsets, although thankfully it looked as though he was staring at the latter. Then it was blocked out by a looming black shape he didn't find nearly as reassuring.

"What the _hell_–"

A bitter-tasting hand clapped over his mouth, and oh _God_ he could _feel_ the feeding slit, it was right against his _mouth_, it had freed its _hand_ oh crap crap _crap_ he was going to _die_...

A voice hissed in his ear softly. "Be quiet. There are others in the west. We must leave."

Rodney nodded hurriedly – he could feel the feeding slit squirming, oh _God_, there were times he really wished he wasn't an atheist, he needed someone pray to, he'd even give up the blasphemy – sighed with relief when the hand was removed and spat out the taste in his mouth. It was vaguely reminiscent of the way cut oak leaves smelt, but mostly it just reminded him of cobwebs. He wiped his mouth, spat again, then was almost yanked off his feet as the Wraith hauled on his collar. It was still holding the stunner, and the way it limped suggested the marines might have gotten in more shots than he thought.

"Yes, _yes_, no need to pull..." Rodney nevertheless picked up his pace a bit, half-jogging to keep up with his captor. The smell of burning organics made him turn, this time to see the hulk of the broken dart lying in its side like a beached porpoise. Rough landing, then. He let it hurry him along for several utterly silent minutes before plucking up the nerve to ask "Where are we going? In the wildly optimistic assumption that you know, of course."

It stopped dead, Rodney very narrowly avoiding walking into it, then turned with an expression that made him take several hasty steps backwards. "Where do you _think_ we are going, Dr McKay?"

Uh-oh. "Well... I'm assuming to whatever this weapon-base-lab thing is you wanted to visit," he said a little lamely. "Um. Yes?"

It was not, _not_ natural for _anything's_ eyes to glow like that. "A weapon."

"Uh." He didn't like that tone. Not one bit. Especially not in something that could kill him with its pinkie finger. "No?"

It stared at him some more – a _lot_ more – then wheeled and restarted its journey north. Rodney gaped at its back for a moment before starting to follow. It made no objection, but from the chilly feeling he guessed he wasn't quite forgiven yet. If ever.

"So," he said after a while, when the sky had deepened to a dusty purple speckled with white stars. "Where _are_ we going?"

Its answer almost made him walk into a bush.

"We are going to find John Sheppard."

o.O.o

Change had come again, grinning with a mocking clown-smile, and John didn't like it. Ilu had been acting differently over the past few days, ever since some captain had hurried in with a report on something called 'the tithe', and 'an anomaly', then a rush of words too low to hear. Ilu had first been angry, then delighted, sending the captain away with a message 'to our allies', then rising and calling to John to come to dinner – an hour early.

Since then he had been happy, almost elated, but John had not been able to share his feelings. He smelt change in the frozen wind, clear as crystal ice, and it troubled him. He took longer to settle that night despite Ilu's reassuring presence, and when he slipped into sleep for the first time in days his dreams reappeared.

But this time they didn't go away.

o.O.o

Fear was born in both human and Wraith, but of the two only humans let it control them. Wraith controlled it, as they did all other emotions, rising above their prey as was the natural order of things.

Fine words. They were a lot easier to believe outside the shadow of the tower, and what the tower held.

The journey here had both taken much longer than he would have liked – Dr McKay had insisted they stop at villages for food (well, _McKay_ had – eventually resorting to a little light thievery while his guide lurked out of range of the torches) due to something called 'hypoglycemia' – and much, much shorter. When he had found the address locked away in the databank his first reaction had been pure horror that any hive could be stupid enough to ally with something like... that.

He remembered the last time he had faced it, so long ago it predated most human civilisations. He had still had a child-name then. Commanders gave up theirs when they took leadership over a hive, but that had been before... and after...

The harsh whine of stunner shots lit the night to his right, shouts acting as a chorus. McKay had not been happy to be the decoy, but had admitted a certain lack of ability in scaling walls and concealing his mind as the Wraith was now doing. To what was inside – now coming out or so he hoped – he wasn't even there.

Maybe. Concealment this way might hide _him_ from _it_, but it also hid _it_ from _him_. For all he knew it could be waiting inside there ready to pounce, and if he fell into its trap again... He would not escape a second time, and what lay that way was worse than death.

The tower felt almost like a horrible eye, glaring at him as he crouched concealed near the courtyard. He heard booted feet pass, dithered, tried to pull himself together, then started forward at last. It was like stepping backwards in time.

_Ka_. That had been his name then. If he was going to face his past, it might as well be his name now.

The Wraith Ka looked both ways, then started to climb up the walls.

o.O.o

Why, _why_ was it that h always ended up with jobs like this? He was meant for laboratories, quiet computer rooms, maybe even the odd engine room if the ZPM went wacky again – _not_ some muddy, freezing field at the ass end of nowhere, running the dark and probably about to break his _neck_ while behind him soldiers shouted, flailed and generally made a mess of things like the good little grunts they were.

_When you have their attention, do not hesitate,_ the Wraith had said when he had suggested this stupid idea._ Run to where I showed you, and do not look back. Under _no_ circumstances look back. If all goes well I will meet you there. _

_If_ all goes well. Rodney didn't like ifs. They tended to spawn ravenous little copies of themselves, each bigger and nastier than its mama.

He spotted the dark shape of his hidey-hole – a semi-cave created by a fallen tree – and huddled down into it, burying himself in his stolen coat. It was _freezing_ on his misbegotten rock, and he'd had to be very careful about the tracks he left in the snow – letting a trail lead in the opposite direction before doubling back in a stream (his feet felt like _ice_, oh crap he probably had hypothermia or frostbite and was going to watch his toes fall off) and carefully wiping out all traces of his passing. Take _that_, Sheppard, he had learnt something after all.

He hated this place. He hated its snow, its stupid grunts, the icy water trickling past his ear, the way his feet were horribly numb, the stupid two-day trek here, his own stupidity at wanting to come and most especially the one who had brought him here. When he got back to Atlantis the first thing he was going to do was sick every damn marine and two helpings of Ronon on that wretched little life-sucking semi-evolved _beetle_.

Rodney squirmed further into the cave and felt his ears start to freeze.

o.O.o

The two full moons were both a blessing and a curse; they were undoubtedly preventing McKay from falling down some animal set in the woods (maybe), but they also lit the tower like a torch, making him feel like the whole compound could see him crawl up its walls. If the building hadn't been made of dark stone in the first place, perfectly camouflaging his equally black coat, he surely would have been spotted by now.

He – _Ka_ clung to the underside of the window like some enormous spider, then slipped inside like a ghost without allowing a pause for thought that he might be wrong... that the thing in the tower might not have left. That it might be in here, waiting for him, that he might catch its gaze and be unable to let go.

It wasn't, and he didn't. There was nothing in the room but a bed cradling a sleeping figure Ka knew very well.

Sheppard looked... young. _Very_ young. With his mop of dark hair against his too-pale skin, curled on his side in a foetal position, he bore a striking resemblance to an immature Wraith youngling, one kidnapped perhaps and far from home, with an expression of peaceful innocence that would have made the harshest of queens melt. It was a disconcerting thing to see on someone who had aimed a blaster at you a year ago.

When Ka picked him gently Sheppard worryingly – but thankfully – didn't stir, just shifting and sighing before slipping back into dark dreams. He was as light as a day-old husk, _not_ something Ka wanted to think about just then.

He couldn't very well climb the walls and carry Sheppard as well, so the stairs were his only option. All the way down he was tensed in a fight-or-flee state, half expecting the thing to be waiting in ambush, ready to spring out just as he reached the doorway to freedom and smash his hopes to dust.

It never happened.

He crossed the deserted courtyard, hearing floundering humans in the distance shouting, waiting for the thing to appear from some deserted alley and claim both his prizes.

It never did.

Ka reached the woods without incident, and it worried him like nothing else might. This was easy. Too easy. It had the smell of a trap about it.

But McKay was there to greet him as planned, and when they started their journey into the west they were not followed.

From the top room of the tower, Ilu watched them go.


	7. Cold Journeys: Chapter 1

But before we carry on, special thanks goes to the following:

**My father and his buddies formerly of the 22 SAS regiment** - for putting up with my constant questions along the lines of "Is this survivable?" and "How cold do you get before you die?" and some on-the-spot wilderness survival I very badly needed.

**Every reviewer previous**, who are still buoying me to write faster with every shiny review. Thanks guys (and gals).

**Cynthia Romer**, who gave me the idea for this second quote. You were right... Rodney _is_ a hobbit :)

Ready now? On to part two, then.

* * *

_If you have to look along the shaft of an arrow from the wrong end, if a man has you at his mercy, then hope like hell that man is an evil man.__ Because the evil like power, power over people, and they want to see you in fear. They want you to know you are going to die. So they'll talk. They'll gloat.  
They'll watch you _squirm_. They'll put off the murder like another man will put off a good cigar.  
So hope like hell your captor is an evil man. __A good man will kill you with hardly a word._

-Men at Arms

"_All Wizards should have a hobbit or two in their care – to teach them the meaning of the word, and correct them."_

-The Two Towers

* * *

Sunrise over Mijol.

North of the wastelands and south of the frozen arctic sea is a strip of land like a furry ribbon that winds its way across the biggest continent, terminated in the east by mountains and in the west by frozen marshland. Upon closer inspection an observer – one, say, who was looking down using a satellite or advanced system of orbital observation posts – might make out the fur as trees, evergreens heaved with fur like white mould and and the corpses of their deciduous cousins clawing with skeletal fingers at the sky. In the topmost part of the continent those trees might explode with the coming cold, sap expanding to split their skins and make then shriek like tortured spirits, but here they only moan and wail in the wind.

_Focus. _

Closer still this unseen watcher would see speckles at interludes in the endless woodland; over the bigger ones smoke hangs like sullen mist in the morning, tinted pink with the climbing sun. Only one is clear; a tower of dark stone pointing up like an accusing finger, surrounded by grey buildings that huddle at its skirts like frightened children. But most watchers would turn away from that sight, uncomfortable as it is, and look towards the west.

_Focus. _

Now the flurries between the trees can be seen faintly, splashed with red in the dawn light. This is a harsh land, a strange land; in some places flat, in others sloping smoothly, in others jagged and stark as flesh torn by knives. In between those trees, like fleas on a dog's back, are two black specks against the bloody snow.

_Focus. _

One staggers behind, floundering in the deep drifts and too exhausted to complain any further. His clothes – for he is both human and male – are soaked through already, his shoes sodden and flapping, an ill-fitting coat of wool that trails the ground behind him the only practical item. The other is taller, but in no less difficulty; what he – for he is male but _not_ human, would indeed scorn to be called such – might have gained in size and strength he loses with the burden in his arms, the extra weight making every step a difficulty. Both of their movements are slow, as though they are at the limits of their endurance, and an observant watcher might say they had been running a long time with no pause. As a cruel wind gusts them both forward the taller one lifts his head and sniffs the wind, his expression growing troubled.

_Pull back. _

If the eye of the observer draws away to where it was before they would see what caused him to act so; a dark grey stain is spreading from the east like a dirty inkblot, driving the rising winds before it.

The blizzards are returning.

o.O.o

"We need to find shelter!"

The screaming gales snatched Rodney's voice away, a lump of snowflakes slapping into his open mouth to make him cough and splutter. Not that it mattered; the shivers running up from his sopping trainers to the tips of his frosted hair had entered his voice as well, his teeth were chattering hard enough to hurt and he could almost feel the icicles forming in his lungs with each stinging breath. It was unlikely the Wraith would've understood a word, even if he had been inclined to listen.

Or had been within hearing range. Rodney had been steadily slowing down despite what was for him a superhuman effort to keep going, and he knew that pretty soon he was just going to collapse between one step and the next. They had been going almost non-stop all night, ever since snatching Sheppard from under the nose of whoever lived in that damn tower. He'd asked the Wraith who that who might be, but had got an eyeful of very sharp teeth that had curbed even his natural curiosity. Sheppard would've laughed.

_Stop that. He's not dead. He'll get a chance to laugh at you yet. _

Maybe so, but right now he looked like death minus the cloak, scythe and pale horse. All of which might be useful right now. Especially the horse. He could feel his legs burning with tiredness, which helped not at all against the cold.

"H-hey!" The Wraith – and more importantly Sheppard – was almost out of sight, although in this weather that was probably only twenty or so feet away. Rodney wasn't a weather expert, but from the look of the sky visibility was going to get a lot worse very quickly. Already the squalls were starting to thicken, the wind rising and shrieking through the dead branches like a hungry banshee.

He'd heard freezing to death was quite peaceful, but it still wasn't the way he wanted to go. He didn't want to go _at all_.

"S... Stop..."

It didn't even miss a step. Rodney staggered on, almost walking into a tree, and almost crying with fatigue. He wanted to rest, just rest for a few minutes, just a little while...

He never felt himself fall.

Rodney felt softness under his cheek, under his whole body, wonderfully comfortable, like a goose-feather duvet wrapped around him. Instead of dragging him down gravity now cradled him, pulling him into the beautiful yielding ground. And his legs didn't hurt anymore, and he wasn't cold at all. He was in fact warm, like he was sitting in front of a fire. A lovely hot fire that made his legs tingle. Rodney sighed sleepily, letting himself start to drift into the soothing heat.

A pair of steely hands grabbed hold of his coat and hauled him up, banishing the image of the fire like a dream. Instead his world was completely white, pellets of pure ice stinging his face, the bitter air hitting his palate and the back of his throat. Then the realisation of who was holding him and starting to drag him away hit him with the same sobering effect as an unexpected bill.

The Wraith grunted as Rodney flailed in panic, then clouted him around the head so hard he saw stars. Oh God oh God, didn't they like it better if you struggled? Didn't it make you taste better or just make them laugh? But it didn't seem inclined to eat him just yet; it staggered on through the blizzard now raging merrily around them with the same grim determination Rodney usually associated with Ronon, most of the time almost seeming to burrow through the drifts instead of walk. Rodney tried to look where he was going and managed to get snow up his nose, of all places. After that he kept his head down and decided not to care where he was going, as long as it was towards Sheppard.

Sheppard. Oh crap in a bucket. Where was Sheppard? Had the Wraith just dumped him and gone back for Rodney? Did it understand about frostbite or hypothermia? Did it know humans could _die_ of cold?

Abruptly, the Wraith let go and Rodney's questions were answered.

Sheppard was still down and out for the count, huddled by the face of one of the knife-blade rock escarpments that poked through the flesh of the forests near the bases of the lumpy hills. The frost had kissed his skin a sickly white-pink, his lips an alarming blue tinge above the strange dark tunic and pants he was wearing, and the slippers than looked so flimsy they might tear at a breath. When Rodney reached out one trembling hand, he touched a cheek that was frozen ashes.

"No..." It came out as a croak. Rodney fumbled with Sheppard's wrist, trying and failing to find a pulse. "No..."

He felt tears start to form at the corners of his eyes, falling to freeze in icy rivers before they could travel to his chin. It wasn't fair. Not now. Not after they'd _rescued_ him. It wasn't _fair_.

It wasn't. If this was any sort of good story they would've found a cave by now, built a fire, thawed out and Sheppard would've woken up and he'd be with Ronon and Teyla instead of some alien _ghoul_ who didn't have the first idea of how to look after a sick man in winter. It wasn't even doing anything useful now, just piling up snow in big drifts as if it were trying to build a rampart for a snowball game.

Rodney didn't care. His team leader, his_ best friend _since Carson was beside him and lifeless as a lump of ice. He huffed on his hand uselessly, rubbed it against his trousers, the huddled close to Sheppard and pressed two fingers against his frozen neck. Without even realising it he started to mutter "Please, please, come on..."

Something fainter than sunlight through storm clouds fluttered against his fingertips. He rubbed them again, huddled even closer – he was practically hugging the man like a favourite teddy bear as it was – and pressed. One, two, three...

Yes, no doubt about it. That was a pulse. Weak and feeble as a dying bird, but a pulse. Rodney almost started crying again, and if he got a bit bleary-eyed who was going to know?

"Dr McKay."

Well, except one person.

Rodney blinked the ice crystals out of his eyes lashes and stared up and the dark figure looming over them both. He was starting to get light-headed again, and so the appearance of a green-skinned alien and what appeared to be a wall made out of snow jutting out of the escarpment behind it was not particularly surprising. On the other hand Rodney wouldn't have found a troop of dancing pink elephants surprising right then.

Maybe the Wraith realised that, because it certainly wasted not time trying to convince Rodney to stand up on his own. It simply grabbed him by one shoulder and Sheppard – somewhat more gently – by his, then hauled them both to the snow wall without a word, dumped them beside it and started to build another wall on the other side.

Rodney ignored it, figuring that even Wraith could do mad things when they were caught in killing colds like this, and instead focused all his attention – and body heat – on Sheppard. He pressed himself up against Sheppard's right side as much as he could, debating whether his limbs were going to work well enough for him to take off his coat and share it.

Funny how the light had gone. And the sound. Rodney blinked again and looked up dazedly. The new wall of snow was now higher than his seated height, the Wraith crouching and started to close up the top, building a ceiling like the termites Rodney had seen once in a nature documentary building a chamber from chewed wood. It didn't take long for the hole to close completely, then the Wraith shuffled along, bent doubled in the increasingly cramped space, and started to close the remaining gap between the two walls as well.

_An igloo._ Rodney almost giggled. _I'm in an igloo built by a Wraith. An Eskimo Wraith. _

The air was starting to get noticeably warmer. Not warm enough to stop McKay's breath forming little ice clouds in front of his face, but warm enough for droplets of water to congeal on the ceiling above them. The Wraith – _Eskimo Wraith_, Rodney sniggered to himself feverishly – finished closing them in and slid backwards on its hand and feet, coming to rest on Sheppard's left side. Cushioned between the two of them, the man himself didn't stir.

Rodney didn't care. He had more important things to worry about. "He's too cold," the scientist blurted, trying not to flinch at the slitted-pupil glare turning his way. "There's, there's thing that happen to humans when they get too cold. They, we, we die. Freeze. I think he might be..."

He bit off the _dying_; snapped down on it with sharp teeth, but the Wraith must've got the picture clear enough. It wriggled into something like a sitting position and started to rub Sheppard's nearest arm, scrubbing like a grandmother cleaning cloths the old-fashioned way.

"Whoa, whoa, wait!" Rodney grabbed its wrist, ignoring the hysterical gibbering of his hindbrain telling him he was about to be eaten. "What the hell are you doing?"

It looked at him as though he was mad. "If his core temperature is dropping too far, then his circulation will be becoming sluggish. It might cause tissue damage."

"You don't rub hypothermia victims," Rodney snapped with all the scorn he could muster, trying to ignore the feel of the Wraith's flesh under his hand. It was cool but not clammy, smooth and utterly alien. "Trust me; I lived in Russia... not that you know where that is." Rodney shuddered, remembering the Wraith attack trying to break through to Earth. "I hope."

"What should we do?" Surprisingly – as if it turning shining knight to the rescue and Eskimo weren't surprising enough – it didn't sound in the least bit sarcastic, rather sincerely concerned. Rodney was momentarily thrown, before trying to think about everything his Russian co-workers had taught him.

"Er, er, okay. He needs blankets. Um, hot liquid and something sweet, but we don't have those. We need to warm the core of his body first or the cold blood will just rush towards his heart and kill him anyway." God knew how they could do that without something warm to drink. He didn't even have a powerbar left; that had been eaten just before the rescue from the tower. Hypoglycaemia loomed. "Uh, the best way is through, uh, sharing body heat." Oh boy, wasn't _that_ an image he didn't need...

As if reading his mind the Wraith was unbuckling its coat. Rodney almost choked. "No! Jesus! You can share it with your clothes _on_!"

The Wraith gave him an old-fashioned look that spoke volumes, then wriggled out of the coat and spread it over Sheppard as a blanket. The tunic-thing it was wearing underneath looked disturbingly similar to the one the recipient of its coat was wearing. The Wraith tucked down the corners then settled back in position on Sheppard's left side, eyeing Rodney as if encouraging him to do the same.

Rodney sighed, but did, although he didn't take off his coat. Acting as a hot water bottle for Sheppard wasn't half as bad as he would've thought it would be; the reassuring and slowly warming solidness beside him oddly comfortable. Oddly. Like that was the oddest thing about this.

He was stuck in a snow-cave igloo thing built by a Wraith who had taken it into its head to mount some sort of bizarre rescue mission without telling anyone, kidnapped Rodney, stolen Sheppard then almost gotten them frozen to death while running from who-knew-who and was now trying to save Sheppard's life with a ratty-looking leather coat and its own dubious body heat coupled with Rodney's own. Just... why? Why all of this? It hadn't struck him as overly fond of Sheppard, whatever it had said after they escaped from Kolya. Sheppard certainly hadn't been fond of _it_. So _why_?

"Hey," he said sleepily, his eyelids starting to acquire the same weight as two dwarf stars. "Wraith? Wraith?"

Slight whuffling sounds made him crane his head over Sheppard's chest, then drop it back with disbelief. Good grief.

The Wraith had fallen asleep.

o.O.o

Rodney woke to prism scatters of rainbow light dancing on crystal-white walls like powdered quartz. The sight was so beautiful and unexpected – but then weren't the most beautiful things always unexpected? – he paused for a moment and just lay there, on what felt like a very damp back in the strange roughly-formed dome.

Then the heavy form pressed against his left arm stirred and Rodney remembered. Remembered the hike out of the desert. Remembered the sneaking into the tower. Remembered the Wraith appearing with Sheppard held in his arms like a sleeping child, the flight from the citadel and the storm. Remembered how cold and waxy Sheppard's skin had been underneath his fingers, how he'd been so sure that all they had done had been for nothing.

Rodney sat up on his elbows, aching all over with the aches that come from lying in lukewarm temperatures on wet ground. The snow underneath him had melted, leaving dead grass and rotting leaves gleaming wetly through the damp, but it was still bitter enough to make him shiver violently. He shifted on his butt sideways to look at the man he was trying to save.

Sheppard wasn't anything like the colour he should be, but some of the white had left his skin. Now he looked an almost healthy pale pink, and he was breathing noticeably, something that either hadn't been there yesterday (was it yesterday?) or Rodney hadn't noticed. All of this took a decidedly background importance when _where_ he was breathing and looking better was taken into account.

His best friend had found a comfortable pillow to join the somewhat grungy would-be blanket draped over him, but unfortunately that pillow happened to be moving up and down slightly, and more to the point was an actual _chest_ of an actual _Wraith_. A Wraith whose tunic had a small puddle of sleep-drool on it and a big crease in front, a Wraith who was thankfully still fast asleep, making whiffly sounds like an old dog as it breathed. Rodney wasn't sure whether to laugh or panic or grab Sheppard and run like hell. Or maybe wish he had a camera, because _that_ photo would be literally worth gold as blackmail.

_Prioritise, McKay. You need to get him home first. _

It sounded irritatingly like Ronon, and like Ronon it was irritatingly probably right.

_And get him off that damn thing before it wakes up_, his inner caveman added.

_Definitely_ right.

"Of all the people you had to dribble on," Rodney muttered as he grabbed Sheppard's weirdly-cut clothes, then winced because a) that was _not_ something he had expected to say ever in his lifetime to someone and b) it sounded disturbingly loud in the enclosed space and he didn't want to wake the Wraith up or collapse the ceiling on their heads. He tugged at Sheppard's arm as gently as he could, but the _thump_ his friend made when he slid off was still horribly reminiscent of a corpse being dumped in a pit. He couldn't stop himself feeling Sheppard's neck again, sighing with relief at the faint pulse.

But still not strong enough. And that thump should have woken him up – should have woken them _both_ up. Rodney wasn't sorry the Wraith was still apparently snoozing (drool and all), but Sheppard was starting to worry him.

How long had it been since they rescued him? A full day? How long had they slept? Long enough for the snow to melt and Rodney's back to feel like it had knotted into golf ball-sized lumps, and long enough for the storm to die away (he listened and could hear nothing but the sleep-sounds of the Wraith, and even _it_ couldn't snore loud enough to drown out a blizzard). Yet Sheppard hadn't woken up.

Maybe he was doped up, or sick. Or it was the cold. There were a million different reasons for him to be comatose, because Rodney _still_ didn't know who they'd rescued him from or what had been done to him; for all he knew Sheppard could have been kept in some black hole cell and whacked over the head before the Wraith got to him – or _after_ the Wraith got to him. The scientist examined his head for bruises, but found none. A small relief.

But Sheppard still needed things. So did Rodney. He was already giddy with low blood sugar, and he literally didn't have a crumb. If this kept up he'd collapse and die before Sheppard had a chance to wake up.

Time to wake up Sleeping Ugly.

Rodney clambered over Sheppard's limp form, ending up practically squashing the man, then shoved him as carefully as possible aside and poked the Wraith in the chest while simultaneously leaning back hurriedly. It didn't even twitch. Rodney poked it again – harder – and got a sleepy _huff_ like a waking bear, then one opened eye. It was nastily reminiscent of the T-Rex staring through the car window in _Jurassic Park_ (Wraith always reminded him of those freaky raptor things, he still had _nightmares_ about those. Damn Sheppard and his damn video nights), although much, much scarier. And closer.

He didn't waste time being frightened. "Wake up," Rodney snapped, shoving back the fear using his anger with the ease of long practice. "The storm's stopped. And there's something wrong with Sheppard."

It sat up, but slowly, and unreasonably sluggish. From the bleared look in its now both-opened eyes it wasn't fully awake yet, but it was only when it almost knocked down one of the fragile snow walls that Rodney thought there might be something odd about it.

Oh crap. Please don't let it be sick as well. He had no idea where the Stargate was, or even if that was where they were heading, or if it had done that freaky mind-message thing and called for help. Either way he still _needed_ it.

It noticed his worried look and appeared to make a poor attempt at a reassuring smile. It didn't really have the teeth for it. "The cold. Is not good for us. Our blood runs. Slower. For hibernation." It sounded slurred, as though it had been on a bender the night before and was still shaking off the effects. But Rodney felt a little calmer. Of _course_, when you got right down to it Wraith were basically bugs in human-ish suits. Bugs didn't like the cold much. He wondered how much faster it could have walked last night if the temperature hadn't been freezing, and shivered.

"You good?" It didn't look it, but then again none of them did. It nodded anyway. "Great. _Really_ great. Now, _listen_ because I don't want to return here to find you've packed up and left while I'm away. I'm starving. So is Sheppard. And he's cold, and I'm cold, and you know what happens when humans get too cold, yeah? Yeah, because you saw that last night. We need things to survive this... this whatever-this-is, this journey or escape or whatever, things like extra clothes and fire starters and _food_. If we don't get those things, we'll die. You understand? But thanks to your strong-and-silent act I haven't a clue where we are or where the nearest settlement is. So I need you to tell me, and tell me where we're going and what we're doing. Because if you don't, I can't look after myself and I can't look after Sheppard. And I don't think you came here just to see him die."

The Wraith listened patiently throughout this, then spoke as soon as Rodney was starting to breathe in again. "You are partly incorrect."

"What?"

"If I had found..." It broke off and seemed to hesitate, then started again. "If I had found... what I feared... I would have seen Sheppard die. I would have killed him myself. Out of mercy."

Rodney's jaw dropped. "You came here to _kill_ him?"

"As a last resort. I came here to free him, and if death was the only way... Thankfully," and it _did_ look thankful, goodness knew why, "that was not necessary, and so you are partly correct as well. I do not want him to die now."

"You came here to free him..." What the hell was going on here? "You knew where he was. How? _Why_?"

Its lips twitched. "Why what?"

"Why everything!"

"_That_ would be too long a tale to tell. But in short..." It chuffed quietly, almost to itself, then straightened and sat cross-legged like a tailor. It was a faintly bizarre sight; the Wraith and the man holding a palaver over the sleeping body of a rescued soldier. "In short Sheppard was taken – in the near past or further back, it no longer matters – by one who has reason to hate me. Undoubtedly he saw the mark of the Gift, and thought to use Sheppard as..." it hesitated, "as bait. The tied herbivore to draw the hungry carnivores. He knew I would come... Now we have him he is safer than he was, but not by much. If we make it to Atlantis, he might be cured."

"Why? What's wrong with him?" Rodney felt a curl of panic low in his stomach. "And why am _I_ here? Not that I'm objecting, but this doesn't seem... I'm not... you could have done this by yourself."

"I told you he was the herbivore, yes?" Rodney nodded slowly. "His leash is not physical. The one who... did this, he has chained Sheppard to him with his mind. I suspected as much, but now he has not woken I am sure. _If_ he wakes, he must be put to sleep again quickly. He will not be the man you knew." The Wraith sighed. "And you are incorrect again, Dr McKay. I need you to bring him back. You and he are _lўf'géfa_."

That last was said in a guttural clicking and growl. Rodney wasn't sure he wanted to know what it meant. "This person who caught him... who is he? Why does he hate you? What did you do...? I mean, if you did something..."

It shook its head. "I will not say yet. In time maybe, but for now... not yet. But Dr McKay... it is not human. Nor is it Wraith. It is something else, something very old and dangerous. Be thankful you have never met it."

Not _human_. _Not human_. And _not Wraith_. Oh _shit_. "What is it?" Rodney almost whispered. It was absurd, because the sun was shining outside and there were no shadows, but he felt like he sometimes had as a child at the edge of a deep forest or 'haunted' house. Not just frightened, _terrified_.

What alarmed him even more was that the Wraith looked almost as scared as he was.

"Whatever name it has here is false; I do not know what a human might call it," it said in a low voice, almost too low to hear. "But when I was younger, when we told tales of it in my crèche... we called it a _Gàst_."

o.O.o

Open air did a lot to chase away the spooks, but it presented new problems, most of them to do with the skin-biting cold. Rodney was alone; the Wraith was staying with Sheppard in their snow hut thing. It had given him a set of maybe-directions ("There was smoke on the wind from the north") and told him to hurry.

"The _Gàst_ will know where we are going," it had growled. "There is only one Stargate, the one in the west. It will try to ambush us there, but will follow as well, to harass and hunt. And there might be others unallied to it. We must not stay here long."

But it had allowed him to go for food and supplies, because if he didn't they'd never make it to the 'gate at all. It wasn't lost on Rodney that the Wraith had conveniently neglected to mention how far away the Stargate was. If it even knew.

_It _must_ know. It said the 'gate in the west was the_ _only_ _'gate. It must have come through that to get here, so all it needs to do is backtrack. _

Ronon chose this moment to add his two cents._ Walking's different from flying. _

Right again. Rodney missed the time when _he_ had been the one with the answers, the conjuror pulling the rabbit out of the hat almost weekly. But what he had tried to tell the Wraith was right; this wasn't a place or mission where Rodney McKay would shine. Truth be told, it wasn't really made for a Wraith either. Breaking-and-entry, rescues, and treks across frozen winter lands were made for people like Ronon or Teyla – or, and this was the kicker, Sheppard.

They weren't made for him, and they sure as hell weren't made for a Wraith. But here they both were, and the kicker struck again, because it was Sheppard they were rescuing.

Heroes weren't supposed to need rescuing.

He kept the wind to his face as he walked away, leaving his friend with a monster in a devil's bargain to end all devil's bargains. It was cold and strong, and he supposed they must be in the northern hemisphere because of that; it was probably blowing straight from one of the poles. Wherever it came from it cut right through his coat, and if there was any smoke in it left he couldn't smell it.

In the end he didn't have to rely on that; he climbed up and around the splintered rock escarpment, scrambled like a monkey over the miniature hill, then found something that almost made him believe in merciful deities. A path, crooked and tangled with old autumn growth like feathery ferns, and knee-deep in snow, but still a path. A path he could follow.

He went.

o.O.o

The village lay at the end of the path like a full stop at the end of a sentence – an overlong sentence to Rodney's mind, but part of him was grateful. The further away Sheppard and more importantly the Wraith were from people, the better. He had enough nightmares to be going on with without having to remember what a fully-grown Wraith could do to the unsuspecting. It looked like every other village he had seen in Pegasus, although with two exceptions. The houses were lower, built of earth walls roofed with sod and dug into the ground, presumably to preserve or repel heat as necessary. And everywhere there were little mounds of dirt like beehives but leaking smoke.

It looked relatively crowded, although with all the thick snow about to stop travel that was hardly surprising. No-one stopped him from entering; then men watched warily, the women hurried away, the children scattered and gawked from a distance like sheep. Rodney stopped of his own accord eventually, because the combined stares were starting to make his skin creep in unpleasant ways.

It was only when he'd halted near one of the smoking stacks that anyone talked to him; a stout old woman in brown homespun and fleeces, carrying a covered woven basket the size of a small pig. She looked him up and down then said without preamble "On th' run, are ye?"

He felt his jaw drop to his chest. She cackled at him, showing gaping yellow teeth like a broken picket fence. "Figured so. Need food by the look of ye. And a decent coat. And boots. Got anythin' to trade?"

_Straight to the point_, Rodney thought in bemusement, but he rummaged through his clothes anyway. They didn't turn up much; a few scraps of paper and a pad, an empty power bar wrapper, a half-used biro, and two crystals from one of the Ancient devices Zelenka had shown him, the one they had wanted to use to store the nanite code when it was ready...

The woman was interested in everything, amazingly enough, even the shine and shimmer of the empty wrapper. But it was the crystals she liked the most, holding one up to the light. "This be worth food and old clothes, if ye give us those. It does look like it might fit my eldest." She turned and bellowed to one of the lurking children. "Darm, you go get yon Grandpa's fleece from th' cupboard! And bring those shoes I made fer ye uncle!"

The brat scurried off like his pants had been set on fire. The woman grinned toothily at him as she turned back to open her basket. "Got plenty to trade for that pretty, if'n ye like vegetables and bread." Rodney nodded nervously. "Good for tha. Ferik, get a sack for th' man. He can't carry all this in his hands now, can he?"

Another dirty little child, this one with feet wrapped in what looked like old sacking, ran away into one of the huts. Darm reappeared trailing a fleecy coat that dangled down to Rodney's thighs when he held it up against himself. The woman nodded and grinned again when he pulled it on and closed his eyes briefly at the wonderful sensation of _warmth_, then reached out for the discarded coat of moss-coloured wool. Rodney kept a tight grip on it.

"Um... I have a friend. Waiting. He needs a coat as well and this might fit." A thought struck him. "He needs shoes as well..."

For the first time she scowled. "Ye didna mention another. Where be he?"

_In an igloo somewhere down below, and oh boy you don't want to know who with. _"Just somewhere."

The woman snorted, snatching irritably at the timidly proffered sack from the grimy child called Ferik. The child stuck its lip out – whether it's a boy or girl is impossible to say under the dirt and mass of tangled hair – but ran away despite this. Rodney was gradually aware of being watched from every corner.

"Wise of ye to say nothin', but that changes little. Ye promised the clothes in trade."

_Like hell I did. _Huh. Sheppard must be rubbing off on him. "I could give you the pen instead."

She licked grey lips nervously, then assumes a cunning expression. "No good without paper to write with. And shoes'll be extra – yours and the other crystal."

"Fine. Fine. Whatever." Like he cared about a post-it pad and some balled-up scraps, although the crystal was a bit more of a pang to part with. The woman grabbed at the items without thanks, then sniffed as she handed over the sack of food and shouted at another gormless brat to get some old boots. Rodney might be naïve in certain ways, but not so much that he doesn't check the quality of the food surreptitiously. Although not surreptitiously enough, from the snort of the old woman.

"Don't ye worry, we don't cheat our traders no matter who they be runnin' from."

"Who says I'm running?" Rodney tried. She wheezed out something that might have been a laugh, grabbing a timidly proffered pair of shoes (more like rotting leather sacks, in Rodney's opinion), and shoving them in his hands roughly.

"Heh! Ye whole body, soh-outlaw. Altho' wit that attitude twon't be a long journey." Another broken grin. "'Specially not now."

Definitely _not_ naïve, because he saw the implications in those words at once and the danger the next time around, and it must have shown on his face because the old woman, the old _hag_ clutched her sides and wheezed and wheezed. "Don't ye worry yeself soh-outlaw; we won't be givin' too much information. Spoils the fun for the rich folk, see? Chase needs a little _buzz_. Ye go off on ye merry with ye friend, we'll stay behind as always, and every-single-one comes off happy. They'd find ye anyway, we just... ease things a bit."

Oh _crap_. "Stupid," Rodney muttered to himself. "He, it built a _tower_. You have to have serious greenery to do that, or goldery, or... just general ery." Enough to spread around, by the looks of it.

Her laughter stopped like water being turned off in a tap. "Tower? Ye come from the tower?"

O-Kay. Perhaps not the best thing to say under the circumstances then. "Well, I, er..." Rodney wanted to lie, but he never seemed to be able to manage it quite right, and had to settle for a lame "Might have."

He was aware of the frosty temperature dropping even further, somewhere in the range of polar bears dieing of frostbite and penguins turning into popsicles. He also heard muttering, but not the usual what-a-bastard mutter he knew and loved. It was more an oh-Gods-and-various-ancestors, we're-looking-at-a-walking-dead-man. The children disappeared as if by magic, and much as he detested anyone not old enough to drive Rodney wished they would come back. He could see bow shafts being gripped with white fingers.

It was almost enough to make him regret leaving the Wraith behind.

The woman backed away and touched her forehead, then spat on the ground at his feet. "Get ye gone. We don't deal with the tower here. We might make our charcoal and hunt in its shadow, but that don't mean we be _his_. Get gone."

"With pleasure," Rodney muttered, starting to back out slowly. Like dogs, villagers tended to chase people who ran. He could almost see the teeth being bared around him through the cloying smoke in grimaces that might have been funny any other time in his life.

Only when he reached the path did he dare turn his back on them.

o.O.o

It was a strange thing, but almost as soon as Dr McKay was gone Ka wished for him to return. The man was arrogant and bothersome as a honey-fly in hot weather, but now he was no longer there was nothing to distract Ka from the absurdity of his position, the insanity of his actions, and the steadily gnawing hunger grinding in every cell of his body.

And Sheppard.

A word for _sorry_ did not exist in any Wraith language; it was generally assumed among his kind that whatever you did you did without regrets before, during or after. It was a basic trait. It explained a lot about Wraith. Ka couldn't help but wonder what the emergence of this new desire to add the word to his vocabulary explained about _him_.

This was not, technically, his fault. He had not given Sheppard to the thing in the tower. But similarly if he had not acted as he had in all those decades of millennia ago then Sheppard's rescue would have been a great deal less complex and... troublesome.

The hunger twinged again. The human Wallace that Sheppard had given to him (Ka had wisely refrained from informing Sheppard that his actions almost perfectly mimicked that of a devout worshipper – he had not grown vacuum for brain since their last meeting) should have lasted for weeks yet, months if he ignored the more vocal discomforts. But he hadn't counted on being injured, which took up energy to heal, so for the second time in his life he found himself staring at Sheppard's inert body and feeling himself _starve_.

Ka's feeding slit had opened. It sensed food nearby and cried insistently to be satisfied. Sheppard slept on in merciful oblivion as the Wraith stared at him with unnerving intensity.

_hunger_

His queen would tell him – _would have told him_ to leave the human and carry on alone. In fact, his queen would have commanded him to put the man permanently out of his misery and _then_ carry on alone. It wouldn't be betrayal, not by her beliefs, not by his beliefs. At least... not by what his beliefs had been.

His hand hovered above Sheppard's chest.

_You are strong... stronger than any human I've ever fed upon. _

Such strength... even now...

_hunger _

It would heal him. It would douse the fire inside, the fire of his hunger, the fire of his confusion that burned and burned and wouldn't go away. No-one would blame him. He was Wraith, Sheppard was human, and what he wanted, _ached_ to do was the most natural thing in the world for them both. Wraith fed. Humans suffered and died. Wasn't that just how things were?

There was a tear in the shirt, where the cloth had caught on something – perhaps a thorn on his desperate flight from the tower – and ripped open. It was wide enough, just wide enough, to allow a hand to spread comfortably, and in just the right place...

_to feed _

_Stronger than any human I've ever fed upon..._

The stronger the human, the better the meal. Sheppard might well last him to the 'gate. And the sweetness of his life... the memory of it... that would be worth the feeding alone.

No. He had come too far for that now.

_no-one would care, no-one would know..._

He would.

_soooo hungry..._

It was bearable. Hadn't he experienced worse in the dungeons... dungeons he had escaped from with Sheppard's help, the human's hope that had shamed him into allying with _food_...?

_all in the past, all bets are off_

He had called Sheppard brother. He had _meant_ it.

_brother never, just a human, just food, and you are hungry, all bets are off, no-one would care, so strong and sweet..._

His palm lighted on the bare skin, the human's heartbeat pulsing beneath it, making his feeding slit throb.

_feed_

_No. _

_you will DIE_

Ka's head snapped up. That had _not_ been one of his thoughts, and neither had the whispers either. A belated realisation. Of all the foolish things he had ever done...

_oh yes i see, i see very well, who knows better than i_

_I do. _It was almost automatic, and sarcastic to its roots, but he heard laughter echo behind his hindbrain.

_i know little one, i see it in your mind still, so sad, so sad, but no excuse for your behaviour _Ka_, that was VERY ill-mannered, i'm afraid your punishment will have to be severe_

He felt its mind pawing at his, like a dirty hand groping blindly from beneath a stone. Unlike humans, Wraith had no vestigial hackles to bristle, but non-existent backbone spines – remnants of Iratus ancestors – were trying to raise themselves in a threat position. It amounted to the same thing. _Leave my mind, leech._

It laughed.

_you call me leech, PARASITE, PARASITE of his kind, BEG my forgiveness and i might spare you, bow and live, he is MINE forever and you are nothing, spawn of insects and the blood of the dead, abandon this hopelessness, you cannot win_

_I have beaten you so far, _the Wraith growled silently, his gorge rising. That... thing was in his mind, violating it, and for the first time in a long while he felt physically ill. The filth touching his mind sneered, contempt crackling in the mind of its enemy.

_beaten, i am not beaten, could i be beaten by you, child of PARASITES to spawn PARASITES, chained to a human by twisted thought, you who rescued him only to feed now, who is governed only by need, you could defeat me only when the stars had burnt to ash and the last of the galaxies fallen in on themselves to their own ruin_

He ignored it's boasting and sought to drive it away by anger. _Your time here is wasted; you will never have him._

_i already have him, insect spawn, you have stolen what is MINE only temporarily, he will come back to me and then i will have you both, he will be MINE until death but for you there will be death eternal, it will last as long as your life, you will hope to DIE quickly little CRAWLER, little PARASITE in the dark, i was old when you were a mewling newborn and i will be young still when your blood freezes in the emptiness that is your home_

He snarled. _I will see you dead first. _

_fool, you are NOTHING, you were born NOTHING, you will become nothing, there are dungeons below my home, little PARASITE, deep ones in the empty dark, he will be MINE forever while you rot there, eternally hungry, until you BEG for chance to feed on him, your_ brother_, but there will be no rest, no food or sleep, nothing but an endless awareness and in the end the madness will take away even that_

He shuddered without thought. The cells... he could never go back to that. Never. Even the _idea_ had haunted his dreams for months after his escape, the lingering fear that it had all been a fantasy and he would wake into the pain and cold of his prison.

_then run, run from me little PARASITE, feed or not, it is all the same, he will be MINE in life and death, you will have lost but submission will gain you life, resist and the cells will call you home _

The cold was back. He knew the leech was pulling it from the murky depths he had pushed it to, but it was back, stronger even than the hunger had been, the terrible aloneness of the silence there that held nothing but the drip of water and the creak of stone, no Hive, no brethren, just the numb and frost.

He was drowning in it.

_drown and freeze, PARASITE, there will be NOTHING left for you but that, and he will not care _

"Um, hey? Are you alright?"

_That is not my concern. _

_he will kill you, be concerned then little half-person, little lonely parasite, you will DIE_

"You look a bit–"

_So be it. _

"I am well, Dr McKay," he lied. The foul presence in his mind had gone, but the filth it had strewn around during its stay remained. Like mud. Simply _thinking_ about it made him want to wash out the inside of his own head.

McKay may or may not have been as clever as he thought he was, but he was no fool. After a suspicious look he unbundled a greyish-green object that unfurled to take the shape of his old coat. The new one, a dark fleece that hung almost to his knees, was gathered around him tightly and tied with strips of frayed cord, a pair of outsized leather boots making each step land with a _clump_.

"Here, this'll probably fit him better anyway, help me get it on..."

It was strange where your feet took you sometimes. Ka reflected on this as he helped a human scientist he had literally _dreamed_ of feeding on during several occasions manhandle another human he really _had_ fed on into a pair of badly-tanned shoes and a coat that was baggy but a reasonable enough size, and at least allowed it to be wrapped twice around his skinny body in order to keep out the cold while Ka accepted his own jacket back gratefully. Strange and peculiar.

The only thing that could possibly be any stranger was what they did next, which was try to find out how to feed a comatose man they couldn't risk waking with various vegetables and grainy brown bread. Ka would have preferred meat, but there was no time to hunt for any – they had tarried too long as it was. In the end McKay mashed half a loaf together with snow to make a soggy paste, which he fed to Sheppard in bits and bites. Ka very carefully (and secretly) tugged the human's mind into semi-consciousness in order to make him swallow, the process exhausting him even further than the mind-battle with the _Gàst_.

No time for rest, though. The day was young, and McKay couldn't travel during sensible nocturnal hours. They needed to carry on. And fast. The _Gàst_ would have sent its followers out with the dawn, and even in forest mounted humans might move more quickly than they. The only good point was that the blizzard would cover their tracks.

"Come." Ka rose, Sheppard cradled in his arms as he had been the night before. More and more this felt like a very bizarre hallucination. "We must leave this place."

McKay made no objection (other than a weary and heartfelt sigh), but rose as well and took his place by Ka's left arm, where his _lўf'géfa_'s head was nestled securely. The anxious look his shot towards Sheppard did a lot to ease Ka's silent fears about this endeavour. Human or not, unrelated by blood or not, they _were_ as he had first thought; _lўf'géfa_ to the bone. As he and Kyu...

He clamped down on the thought as fast as he might have struck in hunger – faster. He was becoming quite adept at not thinking, apparently.

Sheppard stirred in his arms as they started to move off, making Ka tense until the human settled again and breathed in deep, even inhalations signifying sleep. Only then did he start to breathe himself.

No _apparently_ about it.

o.O.o

At first the journey was mostly made in silence. The wind was strong and gusty, blowing fat flakes into their faces and scattering needles from the evergreens, as well as chilling Rodney to the bone. The snowfall was deep and hard going, the drifts almost at waist-height in some areas, and for a good long while this kept him busy enough (and tired enough) not to anything except walk on, panting and wishing he'd thought to bargain for a good thick pair of socks.

Eventually, though, the drifts thinned out as the trees grew closer together, forming a sinister twilight under their spreading canopies. It was completely silent, save for the crunch of his own footsteps, the heavier tread of the Wraith, and their combined breathing. No birds, no animals, not even rodents...

To distract himself from the eerie stillness, Rodney started talking. It was an instinctive reaction to danger that he had (although when things were really, _really_ bad he was as dumb as a rock, at least in terms of voice), and even the impatient looks and eventually downright rude grumbles of Long, Tall and Ugly couldn't stop them. Quite the opposite, since his increased nervousness made him babble even worse.

Eventually it snapped and spoke out loud. "Are you incapable of being quiet?"

Rodney fidgeted, which is quite hard to do whilst walking in deep snow. "Um, probably."

It snorted, then marched on in silence. He had a strong suspicion it was trying to speed up and leave him behind, but the snow and Sheppard hampered it too much for its speed to increase to anything meaningful. Rodney stomped along behind it, feeling snow slide down his boots and make his toes squish inside their flimsy socks, and muttered at its retreating back "Jerk."

If it heard, it made no sign. Rodney continued for a little while longer before deciding his stomach had the right idea about things and shouting, "Hey, Carl Lewis! It's time for lunch!"

It couldn't have missed hearing that, but it didn't slow down one second. Rodney briefly considered just sitting down and eating anyway, but couldn't shake the feeling that the Wraith would just keep on walking, and he didn't want to be left behind. Especially not here.

He pushed himself a bit, drew level, then screwed up his courage and grabbed its elbow. It had both hands full with Sheppard; it couldn't just reach out and smack his head off, could it?

Maybe not, but the glare that turned his way still made Rodney back up slightly, before straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin. "You need to wait up. I have to eat before I collapse and die from low blood sugar."

It eyeballed him balefully. "You do not need to stop to do that."

Yes, actually, he did, or his legs might just give up and drop off. "Trust me, I do."

The Wraith actually snorted, before turning and starting to walk again. Unable to believe anything that wasn't Sheppard could be so dense, Rodney grabbed its jacket again.

It whirled so fast he almost tripped over backwards in shock, its teeth bared in a spiky display of menace. Despite this, its voice was a bare hiss. "If you attempt to lay hands on me again, be prepared to lose them... _Doctor_ McKay."

Rodney swallowed and nodded furiously. A snarling Wraith did wonders for your manners. "Right, right. Understood."

It looked at him a little more, then hissed disdainfully and resumed walking. After a moment's hesitation, Rodney followed it, reaching into the sack as he did to pull out what looked like an purple turnip, and tasted (after a cautious nibble) even worse. He ate it anyway.

He should have asked for matches. And a cooking pot. This... stuff might even be edible if it was cooked, and the thought of all that warmth made Rodney shiver in despairing hunger. His stomach felt like a big empty sack – correction, a big empty _gurgling_ sack with a lump of suspicious alien turnip in it. He was probably going to die of food poisoning.

Rodney glared at the retreating back of the Wraith. You'd think something that had been starved by Genii would be more sympathetic towards hungry scientists, Wraith or not. Ha.

There were no more snowfalls during the day, although the weather was cloudy and gloomy until dusk. Sunset was a dull affair, a simple dimming of the light so far from the glorious red and gold displays of New Lantia that Rodney felt an absurd lump of homesickness in his throat. Homesickness for an _alien_ planet, for crying out loud.

But it wasn't for the planet. It was for... for Atlantis. For warm, dry corridors, the salty smell of the sea that got everywhere despite the air scrubbers, of a mess hall you could just walk into at any time for food, for coffee and powerbars and Zelenka's apoplectic Czech tirades if you annoyed him just enough and Teyla's weird herbal tea that knocked you out better than morphine and fighting Ronon with your fork when he tried to spear stuff off your plate and Sheppard just watching and grinning while you engaged in a battle to the death over a blueberry muffin.

Muffins. And tuna sandwiches. Pasta with tomato sauce. Chocolate.

Rodney was so caught up in this wonderful dream he was only prevented from walking into the back of the Wraith by a sharp warning on its part. He emerged from a fantasy involving hot baths and slices of pepperoni pizza to a dimming twilight world in black and white around a scowling alien holding a comatose man, and a nose and feet long ago gone almost painfully numb. Stupid Wraith. Stupid snow. Stupid Sheppard for playing the hero and landing himself here. Stupid Rodney for wanting to come. Stupid stupid stupid.

The Wraith, unaware of this internal monologue, set Sheppard down against a tree, told McKay to watch him (without the slightest hint of worry that he might not – with good reason), then set about building another igloo. Rodney flopped down beside his unconscious best friend and set about mashing up the other half of the brown loaf.

Bread, bread wasn't going to be enough. Not by a long shot. Sheppard looked as though the Wraith had been taking nibbles off him – Rodney furtively sneaked a looked at his chest to make sure it hadn't, then resolved to try and keep up with it in future just to... prevent things getting out of hand, as it were – his skin dry as though with fever, his eyes almost sunken. He was murmuring something as well, something just out of hearing range for a human, although who knew what the Wraith had been listening to all day.

And the next day as well. And the next. And the next after that, because Rodney was starting to suspect its silence on the matter of how far the Stargate was from their position stemmed less from a reluctance to tell him than an utter lack of any idea where it was. Of all the Wraith, _all_ the Wraith in this damn galaxy, he had to get the one that had the same sense of direction as tile grout...

"Dr McKay," said Wraith said gruffly. "Bring him here."

_Bring him yourself_, was the retort that rose to Rodney's lips, but it stayed firmly locked in his mouth as he picked up Sheppard slowly and staggered under his (much reduced) weight. The fact he could pick up Sheppard at all said everything about how much the man needed a hot meal or several, something he commented on – between puffs – to the Wraith. Much to his surprise, it nodded. "I may be able to make fire, if you can find suitable fuel."

That actually made Rodney pause. Of course he had nothing to offer but bread and alien turnips, but even if he just heated the mash... that, and a fire, could make the difference on a cold night, and this looked set to be a real brass monkey of a night. Of course they wouldn't be able to make a fire inside a den made of snow, but... "Can you make a windbreak?" he asked. "Something to shield it with, maybe in front of the, the igloo?"

The Wraith blinked at the word _igloo_, but let it pass. "Yes."

Yes, _yes_. Rodney wasted no time in tucking Sheppard inside the igloo – that term was going to stick – and going in search of firewood. He'd been offworld and out-of-doors to know what to look for, and where to look; deep under buried drifts, never any green wood, making sure they had been submerged partly in dirt that would keep off the damp snow. By the time he'd gathered an armful and returned the light was almost gone, and a semi-circular windbreak made of woven branches and snow had appeared around the igloo entrance, almost like a backyard fence with a gap just wide enough to let him through. Alien vampire or not, that Wraith sure was good with its hands...

Rodney grimaced. Bad thought.

Still, he was pleased enough to actually compliment it after it had built the wood into a pyramid, stuffed it with leaves, then started chipping two rocks together like something out of a prehistoric cave painting. It looked up in almost comical surprise, then shrugged. Still, he thought it was pleased.

It made sense to butter up the nasty alien. "No, really. It's good. Especially for someone who used to live in a spaceship."

It snorted, the sparks flying from the rocks as though from fireworks. Smoke was starting to rise from the leaf-pile. Inside the igloo, Sheppard moaned, making it look around sharply until he fell quiet again. The smoke sputtered, flared, the spouted a tiny orange flame. The Wraith fed it dry leaves gently, until it had grown into a small but honest-to-goodness fire. It was only then Rodney realised he had nothing to heat the bread-goo _in_.

The look the Wraith shot him could only be called condescending, before it produced a wide-bladed dagger that would have made Ronon green with envy. Rodney opened his mouth to ask where the hell it'd been hiding something like that, then decided he didn't want to know and took it anyway, spreading the bread mash over one side of the blade then holding it over the fire like a frying pan.

Fried bread goo. Yummy. Rodney decided privately he was going to stick with the turnips, disgusting though they might be. The Wraith didn't wait to admire his cooking skills, but disappeared inside the igloo in order to get Sheppard and settled him in front of the fire, woolly coat and all. Rodney edged closer to them – he wasn't about to let his best friend take a snooze by a Wraith, however nice it was being for now.

The Wraith noticed, and grinned a splintery smile. "As I told you, Dr McKay... I do not want him to die _now_. I have expended too much effort to feed on him."

Oh. Goody. It wasn't lost on Rodney that the Wraith had made no mention of _him_, nor the oddly painful look that had crossed its face on the mention of feeding. Come to think of it, it had been giving him odd looks lately and... Oh God.

It must have been better at reading human expressions that Rodney was, because it chuckled – somewhat strained, but a chuckle nonetheless. "I still need you, Dr McKay."

"Oh, well... good." Yes, very good, because there were a lot of nasty ways to die and being sucked dry by a Wraith was one of the worst. Sheppard stirred again, breaking the stare that was emanating from the Wraith in ravenous waves as it turned to him. Rodney breathed a small sigh of relief, but he wasn't about to let Sheppard hog the attention of an alien vampire _too_ long. He liked to think he was a better friend than that.

"Where did you learn to make igloos anyway?" He should probably stop using an earth term around it, but what the hell. If it read his mind all it would get were Eskimos and polar bears.

It gave Sheppard another once-over, then sat back and glanced his way. "I did not spend my entire existence in laboratories, Dr McKay."

"Well, yeah, I can _see_ that..."

"It is a simple exercise." It pushed another stick in the fire and turned to him, half its face lit in an eerie red glow. "The physical forces involved are very basic, and the properties of the snow obvious. You are starting to blacken my weapon."

Rodney glanced at the dagger and pulled it out sharply, although not sharply enough, apparently. Huh. He hoped Sheppard liked burnt bits in his mash. As he waved his hand to disperse some of the smoke he said "It's still pretty impressive." Best to really butter it up, because when he got up and crouched by Sheppard it was right on the other side of his friend. Watching him, watching him try to feed bread goo with black bits to a comatose man, making sure he didn't choke its...

What? Burden? Prize? Brother? He hadn't forgotten what it had said after the escape from Kolya, even if everyone else seemed to have. Including the Wraith and Sheppard himself.

It looked amused at his wariness, and his quick pulling back to hunker down on the other side of Sheppard – just out of reach. "I am older than most of this galaxy's civilisations, Dr McKay. Building a den from snow is not a great feat of ingenuity."

Well, if you put it like that... It made him wonder. And when Rodney wondered, he didn't waste time in speculation when he could just _ask_. "How old is that, exactly?"

It flashed a tooth in the briefest of smirks. "Old."

"No shit Sherlock," Rodney said, then winced. He hated his mouth sometimes. "Try a wild guess."

It shrugged. "Perhaps... sixty... seventy thousand years. Possibly more. Maybe as many as a hundred thousand. We do not try to count our age after a certain period."

Whoa. Just... whoa. No wonder it could built snow dens, it was old enough to have seen entire _ice ages_. It looked even more amused at his surprise. "It was long enough for my quarters to become somewhat cluttered before..." it hesitated minutely "Before my... incarceration."

He could imagine. His looked bad enough after just _four_ years. "Wraith have quarters?" Rodney asked in surprise.

"Of course. Did you imagine we slept hanging from the ceiling?" The Wraith's voice dripped acid.

"No! No, of course n... Well, yes."

The other snorted before continuing. "My private chambers were somewhat diminished after my return... others had moved into the originals... but they saw fit to keep some of my possessions. I was lucky they did not have them destroyed rather than repossessed."

Rodney thought for a moment. He had never considered that Wraith might have their own rooms, or possessions, or keepsakes, or anything personal at all. It all seemed to be about the hive, about fighting and feeding. Possessions implied... what? Uniqueness? Individuality? He snorted himself, scornfully. More than that, and he knew it. _Humanity_.

"Did you get them all back?" he asked to distract himself.

"Some. The Hive had an abundance of weapons in any case, and my trophies were of personal value. However, my... _projects_ were taken over by others." Its tone was one the slightly moving man between them would have recognised as the 'McKay's Pissed' voice. "It was a pragmatic decision, but I would have preferred to have finished them myself."

Rodney had stopped listening after the second sentence. "_Trophies_?" He got the distinct impression it was avoiding his eye.

"Yes..." It flexed the fingers of its feeding hand reflexively. "Many keep... mementos of their first hunt... I was one who did so. It is... a significant event, one to remember."

"Oh, that's just _fantastic_," he spat. "You don't just _eat_ us, you hang up our heads on your walls!"

"More often it is items of clothing," it said as if that mattered. "Or a weapon. I chose the latter."

"Oh, that's _so_ much more..."

"It is none of your concern, Dr McKay!" it snapped suddenly, evidently progressing to a higher level of irritation. "The dead had no us for it! The weapon does not care who carries it! You have never met the human I consumed to find it! Yet you act as though I had murdered one of your own..."

"It's called empathy," he said bitterly. "It's a human thing."

It snarled. "You think us incapable of as much..."

"Oh, I wonder why?"

"Because you are human!"

Rodney jumped up and glared at it. "Better than being a life-sucking ghoul!"

It rose as well, uncoiling upwards like a snake and hissing like one as well. What would have happened next was anyone's guess, but it was all to the moot point because that was the exact moment Sheppard chose to wake up.


	8. Cold Journeys: Chapter 2

The next few chapters are gonna be posted in rapid sequence - I'm leaving for the US of A on the 20th (!), with no access to my computer, so getting this next part up in time is gonna be a race.

Hold on to your hats!

* * *

He had been lost in sleep so long he wasn't sure if this was reality or a new nightmare.

As they did, his dreams slipped back into blessedly hazy fog, but he remembered enough. He remembered the desert, and the dead, and sheer awful feeling of _aloneness_. Because Ilu wasn't there, Ilu had gone, gone away like everyone else, and in the vacuum left behind the dead had returned.

No, not entirely gone. He could sense... hear? He could hear Ilu, but in his mind. Far away, but there, and the relief was so great he felt wetness bead in the corner of his eyes. _Not alone!_

Ilu was telling him to wake up.

He opened his eyes to greyness lit with bloody light and casting gory shadows over two figures. One he saw instantly but at first didn't recognise, until he remembered

_(his team his family his friends)_

his betrayers, and this was one of them.

Then he rolled his head sideways and was stricken with terror, even as he felt the triumphant shout of Ilu behind his subconscious. A _Wraith_, there was a _Wraith_ and it was _looking_ at him, where was Ilu? Where was his safety, what had happened, _why was he here_?

_It's alright, John. _The soothing whisper filled his mind, for a moment blotting out even the vision above him – although that might have been the relieved tears in his eyes._ They have kidnapped you. Taken you from me. But I will get you back. _

Yes, yes he would. And _then_ they'd be sorry; this monster and its accomplice. He had not expected an alliance with Wraith even from traitors like the man with the blue eyes, but it didn't make any difference. Monsters were monsters; they took everything from you and gave you only fear; like the girl on the bus he now understood that too well. Human or not, they were all the same.

There was one difference, though. Humans were easier to kill.

John tensed as the blue eyed man

_(rodney that's RODNEY)_

leant over him, babbling something nonsensical that sounded vaguely like _ohthankgodyou'reawake_, _Ithoughtyouweresick_, coming in so close John wondered about his sanity. You didn't get that close to someone unless you trusted them, and why would you trust someone you had abandoned to the likes of Doc and Grumpy?

He didn't waste time pondering this, but took the opening provided. If the man really was that stupid, he was bound to die anyway. John was just... speeding things up by taking his revenge.

He launched himself upwards as fast as he could, but not fast enough to miss the widening blue eyes of his betrayer. They grew wider still when he locked a hand around the man's neck, pushing the chin up and away with his other in a classic twist. He needed to kill this one fast, then run. He couldn't beat the Wraith in hand-to-hand, he was no

_(ronon teyla)_

superhuman. All he could do was kill, escape, and hope he could run faster.

The delightful _snap_ of breaking neck bone never came. He was grabbed, pulled away so fast he didn't have a chance to let go, so fast he almost dislocated his own shoulders before he thought to release that fragile neck and twist like a weasel in a trap. When he saw it was the Wraith dragging him off the blue-eyed betrayer he still understood no more than when it had first laid hands on him.

It was a _Wraith_, a Wraith cooperating with a human but still a _Wraith_. Wraith didn't save people's lives, they didn't _care_. And then there was bitterness, bitterness and anger, because the man it was saving from a well-deserved end hadn't come to help _him_, hadn't saved _his_ life, the life of another human. It only reinforced his opinion that the... the _traitors_ were lower than Wraith. Less human than inhuman.

"I hate you," he snarled, and he wasn't sure which one he was talking to. Maybe both, but it was the Wraith who answered.

"I know," it said, then washed away his consciousness with blue light.

o.O.o

"Wha... whazztha..."

"Breath slowly and do not talk." Ka sighed internally as McKay swallowed a huge gulp of air and – inevitably – tried to say something with it. Humans. He wondered sometimes how they managed to live long enough to be fed upon.

"He... he..." McKay swallowed another gulp then tried to say everything at once before it was gone. "Hetriedto_kill_me!"

Stating the obvious seemed to be a purely McKay trait, though. "Yes. I had noticed."

"Oh, _funny_! Really–" McKay doubled over coughing, his face turning an even brighter red. Ka waited silently until the fit had passed, hacked out along with a great deal of bile, and McKay had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The wheezing sounds he still made when breathing sounded almost like the after-effects of a feeding. "What... the hell... what the hell just happened?"

"He tried to kill you," Ka said patiently.

McKay spluttered and held up a finger like a weapon. "I swear... _one_ more joke and I'll..."

"You will do what?" Ka rose and used his not inconsiderable height to loom over the much smaller – and bent double – human. The way McKay's face paled to the colour of freshly-pared bone was most gratifying.

"I, er, well..."

"You are alive, Dr McKay. I would suggest using your remaining breath to heal your injuries, not complain."

"Easy for you to say," the other mumbled, still rubbing his throat where purple bruises were forming in finger-shaped streaks. He did, however, grow a good deal quieter for a few moments, while Ka made sure Sheppard was still unconsciousness and ensured he was going to remain that way. Much as he had admired the man's quickness and bravery – not to mention grip – it would be best if he stayed asleep until they reached Atlantis. Ka did not relish the thought of dragging a bound and struggling man across the terrain to the Stargate.

Sleep was a natural process, therefore easy to prolong or induce. And Ka was old. He knew the workings of Wraith minds and humans ones (such as they were), and knew something of where the areas of the brain that controlled sleep were located in each. It would be simple enough to stimulate them for the rest of the journey, especially when Sheppard's mind was still open from the manipulations of the _Gàst_.

And there was the Gift, naturally. A little help, but a welcome one.

Regrettably, McKay appeared to be able to talk in complete sentences now. "I don't suppose you know why he just tried to kill me? And no jokes. You are not funny."

Ka sighed – out loud this time – but refrained from saying precisely what he had been about to say, most of which involved his own desire to strangle the scientist on occasions. "It was the _Gàst_. I told you it controlled him. I also told you he would not be the man you knew if he woke."

"And conveniently forgot to mention he would be _psychotic_ if he did!" McKay snapped.

"I had thought you would have considered that," Ka snapped back. "The _Gàst_ delights in setting brothers against each other. To have Sheppard kill his _lўf'géfa_ under its control would provide greater pleasure than merely killing you itself."

"Alright, alright, hold it." McKay held up a finger. "Firstly, no I did _not_ consider it, because I would never think for one moment that John... that Sheppard would actually hurt a member of his team. Even me. Secondly, I had no way of knowing what that _thing_ delights in and thirdly..." he swallowed "thirdly, you need to tell me what a lif-ge... what that word means when you call us that. Because frankly it's starting to worry me a little."

"It is a straightforward enough concept." Ka told him, not understanding the other's concern. But then, there had never been a time when he did _not_ know what the word meant. "A _lўf'géfa_ is a bonded brother. A twin. One born in the same pod as his sibling."

"But he's not... no, wait. Wait just a moment." McKay looked a good deal more upset than Ka had thought he might be. Humans never ceased to puzzle him. "You've got it all wrong, seriously. We're not brothers. We're not even related. Not in the _slightest_ bit related. I hope," he added under his breath.

"It was not meant in the literal sense. You are brothers in every other way but blood."

"Oh come on, we're not... I mean sure, he's my friend and all but–"

"He is your _lўf'géfa_. Believe me, Dr McKay," Ka added when he saw the man open his mouth, "I know of _lўf'géfa_. You and he create a balance that ... enables you both to compensate for each other's limitations. That is why I came here to find him. You do not function properly without Sheppard, that much is plain."

McKay opened his mouth again, shut it, then looked as though he was actually considering Ka's words before he spoke again. Perhaps he was at last learning a little sense. "This is another of those weird things we don't know about Wraith, isn't it?"

"As you say," Ka replied with a trace of humour.

"Great. Just great." McKay dropped his gaze to Sheppard, who was still bundled in his coat and sleeping obliviously. The fire was starting to burn down to mere embers. "Does this change anything, being lif... being brothers?

"I do not think you understand."

"Of course I don't understand!"

"I did not cause this," Ka explained with a hint of impatience. "Nor did you or he. It is simply something that is – as it is that Wraith feed upon your kind, or stars are born and burn out. A part of your existence."_ Unless he dies_, the Wraith added silently. _Or unless _you_ die_. Which was, of course, why the _Gàst_ had set Sheppard on McKay. The deed had an irony to it he was sure the _Gàst_ knew of – and would know Ka knew.

McKay just gaped at him a little more, then shrugged uncomfortably and said "Fine. Whatever. I can deal with... with weird Wraith beliefs, just as long as it doesn't stop us going _home_."

Ka thought about trying to make him understand, but didn't bother. Regardless of what McKay thought of this, it wouldn't change reality. "It will not."

"Good." McKay rose, not meeting his eye or looking at Sheppard, but starting to leave a mumble. "I'll, I'll just get more firewood..."

Ka let him leave. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how very young the Lanteans were – even, perhaps, for humans. The very young tended to be overwhelmed by simple things that older beings took for granted. Well. _Some_ older beings.

In any case, amazing as it was to believe that McKay could not see what was in front of his own face, this was apparently so. He would need time to adjust to this knowledge. In the meantime, he would need Ka to guard his brother. Ka smiled slightly at the double meaning implied – his brother, or McKay's?

He would have been proud to call Sheppard brother, human or not, if only for their shared escape from the cells together. He had slipped into the more familiar role of antagonism when it was plain Sheppard felt very differently about that, but the offer – such as it was – remained. The human's almost painful resemblance to the younger version of _his_ _lўf'géfa_ – Kyu – at times helped keep it open.

Kyu and another. He had not, after all, been captured alone.

Ka pushed the thoughts away with the ease of long practise. Wraith did not dwell on the past.

_or become stupid with fear or help humans, but then you never cared for the rules Ka _

The voice was not that of the _Gàst_, but rather a malicious echo of its thoughts. Ka pushed _those_ away as well, and focused on Sheppard grimly. The human was still comatose, but he was shaking and moaning, no doubt being punished secretly by the _Gàst_ for failing to kill McKay. Of course the _Gàst_ would not do so directly, but Sheppard was probably having very bad dreams right now, unless Ka stepped in.

He considered this carefully.

There was a way. Sometimes... things happened. Bad things. Like his, his _experiences_ with the Genii – he wasn't the first. The Ancients had seen Wraith as vermin preying on their human crops, and there were no rules about what you could or could not do to vermin. And, of course, there had been in-fighting. Rival hives were vermin as well. Capture, torture, starvation, execution... sometimes the self-detonators didn't work. Sometimes mistakes were made.

Sometimes the prisoners came back.

Even Wraith could have nightmares, and that sort of thing in a community of telepaths was... unpleasant. There were rituals and methods to stop it getting out of hand, only one of which was an option here.

Ka frowned. There was no possibility of them working. The Gift was not nearly enough help for this; it required complex development of the parts of the brain Wraith used for telepathy, which Sheppard simply did not have. Given time and a laboratory he might have been able to create an implant to control Sheppard's REM sleep areas manually, but that obviously wasn't an option here.

There was a cruder method, of course. Ka glanced down at the feebly struggling human, and sighed, then bared one of his wrists and started to rub the softer underarm skin.

Like most hive-based insect species, Wraith produced pheromones of many different types and for hundreds of specific reasons, most of the glands emerging near their wrists, cheeks, and temples. Ka had noticed – and studied – the effect those had upon humans; of course _most_ would never be affected at all, being nothing but food, but nearly all hives had enough Worshippers to make the study worthwhile. He had noticed certain changes in behaviour then, and was now glad he had done so.

Humans produced pheromones as well, and the two species were not as dissimilar as both might like to think.

Ka spread the slight dampness from his wrist over the tips of his fingers, then carefully applied it over Sheppard's upper lip. Other than more direct methods, smell was the fastest way to the brain, and hive-scent the fastest way of calming someone in distress. Even humans were not immune; the scent was similar enough to produce almost the same response in them in large amounts. Oddly – or not – the brain tissues in ones he had studied had changed over time from exposure, creating higher empathy levels for their Wraith masters and unconsciously picking up on pheromone meanings. Ka was working on the assumption that Sheppard would follow the same rules.

Ka felt the skin under his fingertips relax as Sheppard's muscles loosened in a peaceful slumber. With a sigh that was part relief and part regret he drew his hand away. Sheppard would be furious if he ever found out, but that was the point. He had to be _alive_ to be angry.

"Um, Wraith? Wraith?"

He could live with it. _If_ he was allowed to live.

"I, I got some more firewood." McKay sounded uncomfortable, and seemed to be avoiding meeting Ka's eyes as he piled said firewood into the fire. It was a pitiful amount; barely enough to last until nightfall, but the Wraith let the matter lie. His body temperature was a significant degree lower than either of the humans, and now the blizzard was past there was small likelihood of him becoming dangerously lethargic. McKay and Sheppard should probably be asleep anyway by now.

Ka smiled slightly at the fire as McKay sat down beside his _lўf'géfa_ and extracted a purplish root from his sack, chewing on it with a screwed-up expression of disgust. If Kyu was alive now, how he would howl at his twin becoming so paternal over two humans. He might die all over again through laughing so much.

The Wraith chuffed to himself, then grew sombre again.

_I would give a great deal for him to be able to do so. _

o.O.o

Rodney didn't stay up long. It was dark, the extra fuel didn't last long, and the general weirdness of the day had faded, leaving only the exhausting buzz of post-adrenaline rush. He felt a lot more nervous about lying down beside Sheppard, but the Wraith assured him he was in no danger; his friend (he _refused_ to think of him as a brother, he didn't _care_ what that humanized spider thought) was deeply asleep and set to remain that way unless it chose otherwise. For the _Gàst_ to wake him up it would have to be much closer, which it wasn't. When Rodney asked how it knew, the Wraith simply replied that if it _was_, they would all be dead or worse by now.

Good to know.

The Wraith itself stayed outside to stargaze or meditate or whatever Wraith did when sitting by a dead fire in the late evening. Rodney had suggested setting watches – the thought of the _Gàst_ being out there somewhere made him nervous – but the Wraith reassured him yet again by saying that he slept lightly enough to wake if any approached their makeshift den by stealth. Rodney gave up then and decided that if they all got murdered in their sleep it was _its_ fault. And said so. It had just laughed at that.

Rodney drew his coat tighter around himself, revelling in the slightly too-long softness that helped trap what warmth he had left in him, then lay down beside Sheppard. The man looked deathly, so pale he was almost glowing in the darkness, the hollows of his eyes making his face look skull-like, but at least he wasn't rabidly attacking people any more. Rodney huddled up as close as he dared – which was as close as he could get, because he wasn't about to let a little thing like mind control get in the way of saving Sheppard from freezing to death – then closed his eyes and prepared to drop off.

Annoyingly, tonight seemed one of those nights when his fatigue was so great and bone-deep he _couldn't_ get to sleep, paradoxically because he was too tired too. He tried counting backwards in prime numbers, then going over the mission reports he'd neglected to write (and wouldn't _this_ one look good: "Got kidnapped by Wraith, pursued by mind-controlling alien, then strangled by Sheppard. Slept in igloos and ate turnips. The End.") because they always sent him to sleep while _awake_.

Alas, it was not to be now, which Rodney thought was supremely unfair. If this went the way it should – because Genius Rescuing Best Friend From Brainwashing Monster was one hell of a story, worthy of Tolkien or King or some other epic author if they wrote it down right – then he would go to sleep on demand, wake up to hot meals, then... oh, hell, _fly_ over the remaining land between himself and the 'gate. He wouldn't be eating alien turnips and trudging through snow and depending mostly on some freaking alien humanoid _bug_ for everything. He'd be cool instead of just plain freezing.

Ha.

In _stories_ it was always simple. There were always three things: man (rarely woman for some reason), mission, and monster. The centre figure was always either a prince or a knight or a muscle-bound hero. The mission was either to rescue a damsel, find the treasure, or slay the monster, maybe all three in an ambitious story. The monster was always ugly, an ogre or troll or mostly a dragon. And they always ended the same. The champion always won, got the girl, stole the treasure, and killed the monster, usually with a passing spit on its corpse to please the crowd.

Who was he kidding? That was Atlantis all over. They had their tall and dark-haired hero who saved the kingdom on a regular basis, usually by killing dragons; green-scaled, slitted-eyed, white-spiked dragons, or ones a dull metallic grey. Then halleluiah, praise the Lawd, dance on the corpse and watch the hero get the girl. And the treasure as well sometimes. Rodney wasn't sure where he fitted into this, but it would be nice to think it was somewhere important; like wise Merlin in the tales of King Arthur. A canny magician who never _quite_ got the girl but saved the kingdom just as much.

Or tamed the dragon. But the dragon hadn't been tamed; it had marched up of its own accord and said:_ I won't eat any maidens or burn down your kingdom if you help me, please don't stick that sword in me yet. I do not want to die. _

_I do not want to die. _

Rodney turned over and lay on his other side, eyes open to the cloying night.

When they'd gotten there the place had been _swarming_ with dragons. That was another story; the story of the kingdom in dire need and the band of heroes that come in the nick of time. The beautiful but deadly woman, the powerful wizard, the sword-swinging hero, and their handsome leader. And they came and they slew the dragons and people shouted_ Cry praise and hail, our saviours have come._

And the dragons said _Cry woe and fight, for we are dying but we are not dead yet._

_Were_ they dying? Did they _know_? Was it even _possible_?

Yes, he realised. Yes, it _was_ true, and wiser ones probably _did_ know, and oh boy was it _ever_ possible. Wraith needed humans but humans sure as shit didn't need Wraith. Sooner or later they were going to win, but for some reason that thought didn't shout as joyfully as it should have.

He remembered a movie once he had seen in a video night. It had had dragons in it, or _a_ dragon, and it had said _"When there are no more dragons to slay, how will you make a living, knight?"_

Well? What _would_ they do, when the monsters were gone? Would they stay together and do milk runs, or gradually drift apart as Atlantis grew and Pegasus didn't need them any longer, because the dragons were dead and the heroes no more?

_Heroes need dragons. _

Rodney caught a sudden glimpse of the future, of a galaxy of light and rejoicing humans revelling in their new freedom, and in the shadows outside the firelight, lurking in the woods alone, was the Wraith, _his_ Wraith. That last dragon left alive, wandering into the mountains to die alone or be killed by some questing would-be shining knight. But there would be no star for the Wraith when they died; only fading into storybooks, the eternal monster to frighten children, and AR-1 would be their slayers.

The band of heroes for ever and ever.

Amen.

o.O.o

Eventually, of course, Rodney _did_ fall asleep, and much to his amazement he was woken by neither dreams nor sudden ambushes from the surrounding forest. He did drift up from slumber one time in the night, woken by a full bladder, and when he staggered out to relieve himself he noticed the Wraith curled protectively on Sheppard's other side, looking absurdly... tired.

He didn't like it. Not because he needed the Wraith healthy to help him rescue Sheppard or because it might be too deeply asleep to sense attackers, but because it had no right to look... to look _vulnerable_. It was a _Wraith_. It was practically its _job_ to be big and scary and inexorable as a rolling boulder. Rodney was careful not to wake it as he went out, but a part of him just wanted to... kick it or something. Make it angry, make it _Wraith-like_. Make it not cause him to feel guilty, because it had been practically dragging them both along and had started this journey off with a busted leg and was probably starving. And hadn't _done_ anything about it.

Yet.

He did his business and returned as silently as he could, lying down again and listening to the silence. Apparently it was too tired to snore as well.

"You should be asleep."

Rodney almost jumped out of his skin in fright, his hairs standing rigidly on end in goosebumps from his crown to his toes. "Yeah, well... so should you."

That earned a weary chuckle, but a good-natured one. Probably too dead beat for sarcasm. "I do not require as much rest, Dr McKay."

"Funny, you seem pretty bushed to _me_."

"Whereas you are your usual agreeable self," it retorted. Rodney covered a slight laugh with a cough, then felt a complete idiot for doing so. He was laughing at him laughing at him, for goodness sake.

"I'll have you know other humans find me _very_ agreeable."

"Naturally," it mocked quietly, the bared earth underneath them rasping as it shifted into a more comfortable position. "It would only prove that humans do indeed have the intelligence of grazing animals."

"We do not!" Rodney said indignantly, before reconsidering and adding "Well, _most_ of us. Some. Maybe."

It chuffed, but softly, like a tired dog in front of a warm fire, then sighed and said nothing for a few minutes. The silence of the darkness – broken only by the even, deep breaths of Sheppard as he slept on oblivious – was so black and gaping that Rodney spoke again just to break it.

"You know, you haven't told me what's so terrible about this _Gàst_ thing." Apart from brainwashing Sheppard and making him try to kill Rodney, which admittedly was pretty freaking terrible, at least in Rodney's opinion. From the sudden ceasing of a third of the den's carbon dioxide build-up he could have chosen a better subject.

"I have told you all you need to know," the Wraith said finally. Yeah, right.

"A little more won't hurt." It snorted, but Rodney wasn't about to be put off. "It set Sheppard on me. Tried to kill me. I think I deserve to find out more about it than just a generic 'Danger, Will Robinson' description."

"You assume I know more of it."

"I think you do."

It fell silent, and for a long while Rodney thought it was ignoring him or had fallen asleep. Eventually, however, it spoke.

"Most of what I know is through stories. I told you I had heard of it as a child. It was a... a thing whispered of in the crèche. Something intended to make sure we would not stray while on-planet, that we would stay together and be cautious."

"Kinda like the bogeyman," Rodney commented entirely spuriously. It didn't deign to ask or answer.

"I had never believed it. It was simply a cautionary tale. But... I found cause to think there was more to the story than a simple desire to frighten hatchlings."

Something occurred to Rodney then that he should have picked up on earlier. "I thought you were all born as adults?"

It seemed bemused. "Why would we be?"

"Well, we just assumed... I mean we guessed about the growth in pods so it just made more sense." And you just couldn't picture a Wraith as a, a _kid_. You just _couldn't_. They just seemed to spring to life fully-grown and hungry, which was basically what he'd always assumed they did. All the evidence fit, and–

It occurred to Rodney that while some might be born as adults that didn't mean all of them were, or that they always had been. Maybe it was a new thing, or maybe it was just the warriors, or the lower-caste. As his partner in crime might say, there was much about Wraith that they didn't know.

Rodney wondered what the Wraith had been like as a kid, and decided he'd probably been a real brat.

"The drone caste is. My caste is not. Nor are the queens." It sounded a little impatient at being sidetracked, but not as much as Rodney thought it might have been. Maybe it was secretly grateful he had diverted himself from the _Gàst_ thing. "We require childhoods to learn, although I heard rumours of other hives force-growing command caste during the war with the Lanteans."

"And the stories of the _Gàst_..."

"Passed on from the adults. We enjoyed telling the story, in a way. We had very little else to be afraid of, and the sensation was new enough to be agreeable."

Good God. Ghost stories told by baby ghosts. "You said it was angry at you."

The Wraith was quiet for a moment. "You do not need to know."

"What did you do?"

"I did nothing but what it wanted."

"But–"

The Wraith wasn't having it. "That grievance is not your concern, Dr McKay. You must rest now."

Rodney scowled at the half-melted ceiling and the invisible frost-cloud forming from his breath in the darkness, feeling like a child again being chastised by his grandfather because he had asked for one more story at bedtime. "You haven't told me anything good yet."

He expected laughter, or at least scorn, but what he got was silence. He waited for the Wraith to answer, but for the rest of the night it never said a word, and Rodney eventually went back to sleep.

o.O.o

He woke beside Sheppard, who was deeply asleep as ever, but entirely alone apart from him. Outside there was nothing but the windbreak and the ashes of last night's fire, and despite Rodney's attempts with the two flint cobbles and a handful of brush, it stayed unlit. Breakfast was cold for both him and Sheppard; bread mush for him, the last of the roots for Rodney, and melted snow for them both as water. Now the sack only held half a brown loaf, which might see them both to the end of the day but now through tomorrow.

The Wraith returned as he was trying to rub life back into his hands, the crisp morning sunlight swallowed by the black of its leather coat. It looked even more haggard and unkempt than yesterday and was, unbelievably, even curter.

"We must move now," it said tersely, picking up Sheppard before Rodney could protest and cradling him as before. "There are soldiers."

Rodney's frozen feet made him stagger as he pushed himself up, red blood roses pricked into his cheeks in the cold air. "What? Where?"

"Everywhere," it said simply, starting to leave. Rodney grabbed the sack and the flint pebbles and followed, his stomach fluttering nervously. Unpleasant a companion the Wraith might be and little he might know about the _Gàst_, but he didn't really want to encounter it yet. Or ever.

"There are patrols throughout the woods, searching," it continued as it strode on, Rodney half-running to keep up. "Five in each. The blizzard might have hidden our tracks, but the _Gàst_ knows where we must go. And there was a company on the road, five handfuls returning from the west."

Rodney glanced sideways at its feeding hand. "Uh, the patrols... you, um, met any?"

"I avoided them," it snapped. "Feeding would only let them know where are here."

Before they found the tracks or the makeshift igloo, but Rodney was smart enough not to mention that. It probably already knew, after all.

They journeyed in speechless quiet for most of the day, keeping to the hilly slopes and occasionally backtracking over and through some of the exposed rock ridges. The Wraith directed their flight predominantly downhill, explaining when Rodney asked that the soldiers would expect them to flee into the hills, where the escarpments led and hiding among the broken stone slashes would be easier. Instead it was heading for the flatter south, where the snow would be deeper, but habitation more frequent. With any luck they would have a good head start before their pursuers realised they'd been suckered.

They splashed through a semi-frozen stream – Rodney with many complaints about frostbite and its symptoms – and arrived in the flatlands in mid afternoon. It was still wooded, but less thickly, and occasionally there were tracks suggesting wandering animals. The air was still as silent as ever, but the slotted prints of hooves cheered Rodney up a little. If nothing else they confirmed the existence of creatures and maybe people to whom the _Gàst_ might be no more than a whispered nightmare, or entirely unknown, and who bore him personally no ill will.

Near evening the day clouded again, pregnant clouds hanging low and grey over the heads of the trees. The Wraith built another den; this one of propped-up branches covered in snow between a threesome of trunks, and made another fire. Rodney tried to prod more information out of it concerning the _Gàst_, but he might as well have been talking to Sheppard for all the good it did.

Sheppard himself was unchanged, save he had grown a little thinner. Rodney was starting to worry constantly about him, almost enough to forget the looming hypoglycemia of tomorrow, and he was sure the Wraith was starting to regard Sheppard with a sort of alien disquiet. Although that might have been his imagination.

The last of the bread was eaten; it sat in Rodney's mouth in a bitter paste because of what he knew was coming the next day. Now all the sack held was the two flint cobbles, flapping as skinny as one of Sheppard's scrawny limbs, and if it was the same tomorrow then Rodney wouldn't live to see the Stargate. Even the weird reverse-feeding of the Wraith wouldn't help, since it would probably kill the giver given its gaunt look, and Rodney had no delusions about how fond it was of them. Besides, he wouldn't make it home without its help anyway.

All three slept like the dead that night, and arose like waking corpses in the morning.

o.O.o

John was back in the desert. It was oddly quiet although as hot as ever; he could almost hear the sands sizzle in the heat of the sulphur-yellow sun. The dead had not returned yet, but John was sure they would. They would be drawn by his thoughts if nothing else.

He was thinking of the girl.

John didn't even know her name; even in the event he would have heard he most likely would have forgotten it anyway. Eleven was a small age, and an easily forgotten one.

He remembered the look in her eyes.

His schooling had been private and expensive, but it held true with most other schools in that particular area of the USA – children went to and from it by bus. He had been new, just moved up from the bundle of bad memories and sorrow still clinging after four long years to their old house, where the ghost of his mother seemed to haunt every room. He had been anxious to make friends, and a little frightened as well.

He had gotten on the bus with David. His brother had gone to sit at the front, but John had dared to go further back, where the big kids sat. They stared at him but didn't laugh or jeer; even then, small though he was for his age, John had radiated a quiet air of capability that made idle bullies pass him over. Then the bus had stopped again, and a girl had gotten on, one with lank, pale hair that was almost white and ache blooming in red scabs across her face, round-shouldered and shy in the way intelligent children who _know_ how shitty their life is going to get in future are shy.

One of the big kids leant over and said "Don't let her sit by you."

It was a simple request. Afterwards he would wonder why they had made it at all. It was only much later that John would find out the girl was teased by those further up front, and so liked to sit further back.

However, right then it was a simple request. But something in John rebelled. He couldn't have said what, because it was only a vague feeling, but if he had been forced to put it into words he would have expressed it as a desire not to be _used_ – used as a hammer or gun might be used, used by others to hurt others. So he stood up and gestured the girl over, and saw her look at him with an expression that made him feel all cold inside.

But she had sat down. It would nice to say that they became great friends afterwards, but that was untrue. Both were shy, and neither had much in common. John never spoke another word to her again, but he had never forgotten what he did, or what he had felt, or how she had looked at him.

Such a strange look. Gratitude and hatred all at once, and mingled throughout a sort of despair. The despair of knowing that the hero would not be there tomorrow, and that the brief light he cast would only make the rest of her existence seem that much darker.

He remembered not understanding. He wished he still didn't.

o.O.o

Ka was the first to smell the smoke, unsurprisingly, but he said nothing of it. Originally his plan had involved avoiding any settlements altogether, letting McKay settle any food the two humans might need. But he had not counted on his injuries while escaping, or the ones sustained in the dart crash after the unexpected pursuit by the hive of this territory. He needed to feed again.

The smell of the smoke was not promising. It wasn't only wood that was burning.

They approached from downwind, the Wraith's ears pricked for any sound of approaching soldiers, but all they heard was the growls of carrion-eating beast and the crackle of fires. It didn't take long to find out why.

The village, when it had been whole and populated, might have been prosperous enough for one of its size. Ka did not know, had never had reason or inclination to study human economics, and this would not make a good case study. He heard McKay reaching bile as they entered the ring of silent buildings.

Most of the houses were burnt to blackened shells, a few stone ones only stained with soot but empty as the others. Bodies lay everywhere, discarded like so much rubbish, of every gender and age. Most lay with their throats slashed or heads caved in, but a few females – some still showing the undeveloped features of young juveniles – were scattered near the edges with their clothing torn almost off, stomachs slit open and showing slimy grey-blue intestines like dead snakefish. Ka wondered what had happened to them, before deciding he could live without knowing.

McKay staggered up to join him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking an odd grey colour. "Oh... God... this isn't a culling is it?"

"No." It was too wasteful, and he could see no husks. The human looked stricken, as though blaming this devastation on the Wraith might help ease his nausea. "I do not know why this has happened."

The scene certainly put paid to the argument that Wraith were needed to control human population levels. It was abundantly clear that humans were capable of reducing their own populations very well.

McKay swallowed, throat bobbing as though he was fighting the urge to vomit again. He seemed unable to take his eyes off the gutted females. Ka remembered his own reaction to his first battle – and the aftermath – and found himself trying to send a comforting thought-stream to the human before remembering McKay had no telepathic receptors.

"Dr McKay," he said, his mouth tasting of the ashes floating in the air. "There might be food left behind. You should search the remaining houses."

The human turned horrified blue eyes on him, like a startled cub. "I... you can't be serious. In here? With all the... they're not even _buried_."

Ka shrugged, as only one who has dedicated a life to not dieing can. "Neither are you. You have been complaining of hunger since this morning. And Sheppard will need food as well."

McKay's jaw set at the mention of his _lўf'géfa_, but it seemed to pull him together a little. For that Ka was glad; he planned to search for food as well, but he did not know the habits of humans when hiding stores, and four eyes were better than two. Besides, Sheppard should not be left alone. Ka could see bite marks on some of the corpses made by sharp teeth; their approach might have scared off any scavengers but they might be hungry enough to return and there wasn't much difference between a sleeping man and a corpse. Especially a sleeping man who would not wake.

McKay disappeared inside the nearest whole house quickly, making a wide loop around the nearest carcass – a young male still with the awkward gangly limbs of growth. Ka started moving among the bodies, searching among those of Sheppard's approximate height and build for useful clothing. The coat the human wore was the only practical garment, and the others were... tainted. Made unclean by the touch of the _Gàst_.

It was a weary search, and messy. Most of the dead were of short and stocky extract that seemed to be common to the planet, or perhaps the race that dwelt in its forested areas. Ka was a little hazy on his human genetics; he had studied them a long time ago, and lately had been too concerned with the famine and the interhive conflicts to pursue any real research.

McKay came out of the house just as he was tugging a thin russet shirt from a man almost decapitated by the blow that killed him. The human watched the jerk and bob of the corpse's head with a frozen expression, until Ka tired of being particular and tore off the offending object with a grisly _crack_. McKay's face paled to an almost Wraithish shade of green, before he turned away and was violently sick.

Ka dropped the head, pulled off the shirt, and tried not to sigh. It still amazed him sometimes how delicate humans could get over the nonliving. It wasn't as though a corpse could feel pain.

McKay backed away slightly when he approached, but only slightly. "I, there wasn't any food I could find. Someone, some must have survived. It looked like it'd been ransacked."

If Wraith had been religiously inclined Ka might have started cursing various deities at this point. Being who he was, he accepted the news as stoically as he could.

"There might be more in the other dwellings." McKay nodded and went without being told, skirting the bodies as though fearful they might suddenly leap up and tear him limb from limb. Ka was surprised at his obedience, until he remembered how the human's hands had been shaking that morning, how weak and sometimes disorientated it had been. Apparently hunger was no more pleasant for humans as it was for Wraith.

He rolled the shirt into a ball and dumped it at Sheppard's feet before moving down into one of the alleys between the houses. Behind the cottage there was another body, this time of an immature youngling of indeterminate gender that Ka passed over without sparing a glance. The next one was more promising; a tall man a little on the big side, with a wooden bolt sticking from his back. His legs didn't look long enough for the pants to be useful, but the boots were of good quality and apart from the blood – and the small hole – the tunic was serviceable. Ka picked up both and started back to Sheppard, when he saw a shadow flit between one of the stone outbuildings and an animal pen.

It was moving towards where he had left Sheppard.

The Wraith froze, then started to run while cursing himself for a fool. He had moved too far away, would make it back too late; even one bite from the teeth of a creature that had been eating corpses would be enough to poison Sheppard's blood. His mind threw up all he had learned of the diseases that afflicted humans; lockjaw, organ failure, rotting flesh, gangrene of the brain...

He was snarling when he emerged to the main square, but froze. Standing over Sheppard was not a carrion eater or predator, but a ragged human cub.

The cub looked at him, widened its eyes, then shrieked and ran. It was a mistake. However sophisticated and intelligent a Wraith might be born or become, there were some things that were inherent in the bone. Ka was essentially a predator of humans, and inclined by his most basic instincts to pursue those that ran away.

He was not aware of dropping the clothing, only of running between the scattered bodies, jumping over those in his way as he saw the tail end of the youngling disappearing into one of the bigger houses; one built of stone that had mostly survived the fires. Ka followed it almost immediately after, his brain humming with the possibility of a filling meal. Not the cub – too small to bother with – but perhaps an adult that had survived as well, or even a juvenile. He wasn't in any position to be picky.

Truth be told, he would have settled even for the insignificant life of the cub, but that was not to be. Any newly-feeding adolescent knew that feeding on something so small would expend more energy than was gained during the feeding. Besides, the youngest humans tended to die of shock despite the enzyme before proper feeding could take place.

But he could use it as bait, draw out someone bigger. Humans were just as protective of their young as Wraith.

He entered a low room hung with iron pots and hooks, then heard the bang of a door slamming shut. He snarled, realising it had suckered him and escaped out the back, and followed on grimly. The door behind led into one of the alleys, and the footprints on the churned mud showed a clear path. He hunted on with his head down, blood thrumming with the call of the chase.

A childish wail made him speed up in time to see the small figure kneeling in the dirt, gravel burn striping its face in corrugated red and brown. Its unfortunate trip was Ka's good luck. As he drew inexorably closer the cub turned, then started to howl.

"_Meer-raaa, MEER-RAAA!_"

Ka might have been almost blind with hunger, but he was not deaf. The scuffing sound behind him made him duck instinctively, narrowly avoiding decapitation by what looked like a ballistic ceramic plate that whirred over his head and shattered against one of the sooty stone walls. An equally sudden half-brick struck him on the shoulder hard enough to hurt, before he turned to see another cub – marginally older and dressed in a yellowish-khaki leather coat and dirty brown woollen pants with an over kilt– pick up a pebble and hurl it with a defiant screech.

Rapidly deciding the whole thing was becoming ridiculous, Ka drew his stunner and fired. The youngling crumpled soundlessly, its fall echoed by the plaintive screeches of the younger cub.

If _that_ didn't draw any available adults, he didn't know what would.

o.O.o

Rodney hadn't found a single scrap of food and was starting to wonder if this world had the galaxy's biggest rats when he heard a sound that sparked the immediate thought_ Oh crap, children. _

Granted it was not the most charitable thing in the galaxies to think when hearing childish crying, but then Rodney had never claimed to be a nice person.

Abandoning the fruitless search for food in the looted pantry, the scientist hurried outside. Following the high-pitched wails led him to a muddy alley, a child with a face streaked with tears and snot, and a blue-coloured bolt that made Rodney shriek a bit himself.

The Wraith lowered the stunner, looking irritated. "What are you doing here?"

Rodney gaped, then reverted automatically to sarcasm. "I wanted to pick you a boutique of flowers in gratitude for your tireless courtesy."

It stared at him blankly. Wraith. "I was following the screams you cretin," Rodney snapped wearily. He could feel his bones starting to melt into spongy jelly with lack of food. "What do you _think_ I'm doing here?"

It snarled irritably, then moved away as Rodney approached the child. He didn't want to, didn't even want it to be there, but he wasn't heartless enough to leave it to the tender mercies of a hungry Wraith. The brat snivelled and stared up at him with muddy brown eyes, apparently no more reassured by his appearance than by that of the green-skinned alien.

"Hello there little one," Rodney said in the same cheerfully bland terrified voice he use with every child. It regarded him with deep suspicion. "Where's your mummy?"

It stuck its lip out. Rodney thought that under the ratty crown of matted curly hair it might be male, but he wouldn't have bet money on it. "Soljurs got her."

Oh great. "And your daddy?"

"Got him too!" The maybe-boy snuffled again, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "The monster got Meera."

Rodney glanced up at the 'monster', and hissed "You couldn't control your appetite for _one hour_?"

The Wraith hissed back, a good deal more alarmingly. "It was throwing stones at me. I only stunned it."

God. Rodney glanced past it and saw the sprawled figure crumpled in the mud. Meera, no doubt. He turned back to the terrified urchin and tried to smile. "He didn't mean to. He's really quite friendly when you get to know him." A small, spiteful urge made him add "Like a great big cuddly bear."

He felt the glare prickle the top of his head, and knew he was going to pay for that remark. But oh, it was worth it. The boy blinked wetly and said "Really?"

"Really," said Rodney with a reassurance he didn't feel. "I'm Rodney. Who are you?"

The urchin wiped its nose again and snuffled. "Dav." Then it pointed and said "What's _his _name?"

Rodney glanced over the boy's head. The Wraith was glowering at him silently, looking disturbingly like a pissed-off Ronon. With tidier hair of course. "He, uh, doesn't have a name."

Dav pouted, sticking his bottom lip out absurdly far. "Nuh-_uh_. Everything's got a name. So he's got one to. What is it?"

Damn. Rodney cast around his memory wildly, finally landing about thirty years ago. "He's, he's... Ace. He's Ace." Hopefully the Wraith would never find out he was naming after his hamster.

Dav's nose wrinkled. "Ace isn't a real name!"

Rodney lost what patience he'd had, which wasn't a great deal. "Yes it is. Stop arguing. He's Ace, you're Dav, and I'm Rodney, we're just one big happy family, The End. Now –" he continued, suddenly thinking of something "– have you got any food?"

Dav pouted again. "Not s'pposed to say. The others won't like it."

Rodney tried to smile, inwardly cringing. Kids or adults, this might get messy. "I'll make sure they're not angry at you."

The brat considered this, then sniffled and said "You gotta take Meera too!"

"Fine, fine. Whatever. Let's just _go_." Rodney paused and almost slapped his forehead. "Oh _fuck_... where's Sheppard?"

"Outside," the newly christened Ace said a trifle sourly. "I will bring him."

Rodney waited as it went, trying not to move and provoke the teary probably-a-boy beside him.

There was no telling _what_ it might do.

o.O.o

The house the motley trio plus unconscious girl (held very awkwardly by Rodney) wasn't one of the biggest, but it was a fair size; two stories high and built of solid grey blocks of rounded stone, the broken shutters made of the same carved wood as the door. Snow had blown in through the open windows, and the ashes of countless fires had spilled over the iron grate and scattered across the kitchen floor like puffy sand. Dav guided them through this with many a backwards look of doubt. Much to Rodney's annoyance, these were cast as much at him as at the Wraith – or Ace, as he supposed he'd have to think of it as.

Stranger danger was all very well, but surely he was _marginally_ less worrying than a life-sucking vampire?

Maybe not. It wasn't vampires that had turned this place into an open graveyard. He wasn't _blind_; he'd seen the crossbow bolts and the ragged cuts rimmed with red, and the prints of heavy boots through the churned snowy mud. Dav had good reason to be scared of human adults.

Behind the kitchen was something like a storeroom lined with shelves, the stone floor bare except for a few broken crates. Dav dragged these aside – Rodney put his age at somewhere near five or six (not that he'd know; he was rubbish at guessing people's age), and the splintered wooden boards were almost half as big as he was, making moving them a strongman's feat. A heavy trap door, also of wood, lay directly underneath, and this Dav pulled up with both small hands hanging grimly on to the corded rope loop that served as a handle. The hole underneath was black as pitch, a ladder leading almost straight down into the dark.

The boy hung around the edge, scuffing his feet and pouting absurdly. "Meera can't climb down if she's sleeping."

"I'll bring her down with me," Rodney promised rashly, wondering how the hell he was going to do that. "You just go on down and make sure no-one tries to chop off my feet while I'm climbing."

Dav giggled at this – brat – then scampered down like a monkey. As Rodney was eyeing the hole and wondering how the hell he was going to manhandle an undernourished teenager down a ladder he heard several piping voices start up like a flock of startled rooks – too high-pitched, he was sure, for their owners to be adult.

Well, great. Just what he needed. Pegasus Peter Pan.

The problem of the two unconscious people was solved by Rodney going down the ladder – he wasn't about to trust a hungry Ace with human children – then having the two comatose bodies passed down from above by the aforementioned Wraith, who elected to stay up above with Sheppard. Sheppard himself was still out cold, but Meera was starting to whimper and move sluggishly. Rodney spared a pang of unusual sympathy, well aware of the unpleasant side effects of stunning that the girl was going to experience.

A hush descended as Meera's back touched the floor in a gentle descent. Rodney finally plucked up the nerve to turn around.

The room closely resembled the root cellar of his parent's old house; it was small, windowless and deep, smelling of cold water, wet stone and something vaguely like potatoes. A single crate in the centre supported the only lamp, and walls were lined with wooden boxes and sacks with knobbly sides. Perched on these was a quartet of children ranging from a (probably) boy of eleven or ten holding what looked like a hatchet for chopping wood besides a slightly smaller child with a cleaver, to two dirty-blond twins that looked a year or so younger than Dav who apparently weren't trusted to hold weapons at all. The uncertain light revealed matted hair like a nest of tangled snakes and layered clothes smeared with grease, faces poking between almost like afterthoughts.

There was a look in each face, and it took Rodney a moment's thought before he remembered where he had seen it before. Two years ago now, on the planet whose name he couldn't even remember, in the face of a wild man who had gone on to be a team mate and maybe even a friend. It had never really died away, he realised now; it wasn't just the ratty hair and filthy clothing, but something deeper, something in the eyes. The look of a tame dog that had gone feral.

There was no possible greeting that under the circumstances would not be lame, so Rodney didn't even try. "Uh. Hello."

There was complete silence for a second or so, then the boy with the hatchet spoke up. From the way he was gripping his weapon it looked as though he was trying to be threatening. "What'd you do to Meera?"

As though in response to her name, the girl moaned. Dav scurried to her side like a rat. Rodney did his best to ignore this while he replied "Nothing. I mean _I_ didn't. Someone else did. Not me. Um." He could have sworn he heard a scornful snort from the trapdoor above him at these words. "She's just sleeping. She'll be fine."

"Meera's waking up," one of the blond twins observed while Dav said "Meera! I'm sorry Meera I forgot! I'm sorry! I didn't get the stewpot."

The girl blinked groggily, making whimpering noises. Rodney knew from experience that she was probably in the first stages of more-pins-and-needles-than-grandma's-knitting, and so was sharper than usual in telling Dav to shut up. Which made him cry. Which made the twins cry. Which made the other two glare at him.

"Hey! I didn't do it!" Damn trigger-happy Wraith was going to get him mobbed by_ Lord of the Flies_ wannabes. "She'll be fine in a few minutes unless" he winced in remembrance "she got hit in the face."

Hatchet-boy scowled. "Who hit her?"

"Did the soldiers come back?" asked his smaller companion, making the twins dissolve into fresh tears. Rodney rolled his eyes.

"No, the soldiers did _not_ come back. And no-one hit her. Physically. Intentionally. Look, are there any grown-ups around?"

"Just Meera," the oldest boy said reluctantly. Rodney glanced down at the crying girl, who couldn't have been more than thirteen or twelve. God. "The soldiers got them all."

"They got momma," Dav said tearfully.

"And Nalk," said the second twin. Rodney was having a hard time telling them apart, but that one sounded sort of female, and the other sounded sort of male. "And soh-Adrai. He talked to them, then they hit him and everyone started screaming."

"They killed everyone then left," the oldest boy finished. "They didn't take anything except some money and stuff."

"Ma said it was something to do with a tithe," his smaller companion said quietly. "Soh- Adrai was upset about it and didn't want to pay. Then the soldiers came and killed him. And ma. And everyone."

"Da hid us down here when they started killing people," the other mumbled.

"He said not to move," chirped up Dav. "Then he shut to trapdoor and ran away."

"Everyone lay down," the possibly-male twin said chillingly. "They're all lying down now."

"Meera made us get blankets and lights and stuff," said the first speaker. "She wanted to leave through the Ring, but none of us know anywhere to go. Anyway, it's too far."

It took a second for Rodney to register what he'd just said, but when it did he stood very, very still. "There's a Stargate, a ring nearby? Where?"

"Not _here_," the boy said with withering scorn as the twins giggled. "At the end of the west road. I went there once with my da."

"You did? You _did_?" Rodney found himself breaking into the biggest grin in the history of the world. Any world. "Could you find it again?"

The boy shrugged, looking suspicious. "Sure, I guess. Why?"

Yes, yes, _yes_. It was almost enough to make you believe in merciful deities, or generous karma, or just plain old good luck. The biggest grin in all the worlds got bigger.

"Kids," Rodney said in his own little private world of glee. "I think today is your lucky day..."

o.O.o

"No," the Wraith said flatly.

"Oh come on, if _I_ can put up with them _you_ can..."

"They will slow our journey."

"More than an unconscious man wrapped in a blanket?" It had been a busy little bug while he was down negotiating with the ultimate babysitter's nightmare in the cellar. Sheppard now looked... well, cocooned. But in a good, warm way, not a creepy Wraith one.

"We do not need them," it growled intimidating, but Rodney had had enough. He'd put up with too many threats from this, this _beetle_, and he'd had enough. Besides, Sheppard would never forgive him if he left a gang of motley urchins to starve in a ransacked village.

"One of them knows the way to the 'gate, which is apparently more than you do–"

It snarled at him. Big deal. He'd seen worse off Ronon. "He's actually _been_ to the 'gate. _Walking_. Well, riding. He says he can remember the way."

"They will starve."

"They've got plenty of food." And God, oh God, he'd started drooling at the sight of it. Seriously, drooling. No-one should see something like that on an empty stomach. He'd sent them out into the village to gather what they might have missed, mostly as an excuse to have this conversation in private. Only Dav and Meera remained, safe in the cellar.

"They will freeze."

"They've got plenty of layers as well."

It leaned closer, its eyes bleared and skin unhealthily oily in the winter light, and lowered its voice to a vicious hiss. "I am _hungry._"

"Well don't look at me!" It did just that, and he didn't like the gleam in its eye. "Or them! For fuck's sake, you survived the Genii didn't you? You can deal with a... little... hunger..."

Rodney trailed off. The Wraith's face when he'd said the words _Genii_ had frozen into an expression that was... well. He'd seen it on Sheppard a few times, mostly before the flyboy killed people and oh shitshitshit, he'd pushed it too far he'd–

It stared a little longer, then relaxed minutely, muttering "I must feed. Soon. If not... none of us will ever make it to the 'gate."

"Um." It was probably suicidal, but the point was an important one. "By 'us' do you mean 'me, Sheppard and you', or 'me, Sheppard, you and brats'?"

It looked away, then raised its chin and almost shrugged. "One of them knows the way?"

"Yeah," Rodney said cautiously. He didn't trust a Wraith to just give up like that. It snorted, then said harshly "Very well."

"Very well they get to come or –?"

"Very well they may join us. _If_ they can keep up." It turned on its heel and stalked out of the door, muttering something so low Rodney couldn't hear it. It sounded tired. He didn't like that any more than he liked the thought of it refusing outright. Tired people might do _anything_.

Maybe he should just call the whole thing off. Drop the kids off at a nearby village and carry on as before, and... One of those was bound to have carts. He could steal one or buy it with the stuff looted from here, disguise himself, and Sheppard, then he wouldn't _need_ the Wraith.

And then... Rodney chewed his lip. There were a few hunting bows around, and an antique battleaxe lying next to its deceased owner, but those probably wouldn't be enough. Maybe if he hung around he could lead some soldiers to it and let them handle a pissed-off hungry Wraith. If there were enough of them...

He suddenly felt disgusted with himself, which was surprising. It was just a Wraith.

_A Wraith who came here to face something that terrifies it, a Wraith who rescued Sheppard, a Wraith who saved your life in the blizzard._

_It also wants to eat me_, Rodney told his newly-vocal scruples. When the hell had he started growing a conscience? Wasn't it enough to have Ronon in his head?

_If it hadn't run away to help Sheppard and gotten shot it wouldn't need to feed at all_, his conscience replied fairly.

_Shut up_, Rodney snapped, and for a wonder it actually did. Huh. Maybe his Jiminy Cricket self was better at taking orders than _he_ was. Although technically it _was_ him. _He_ was him. Whatever. The _point_ was that if it hadn't been a Wraith then he wouldn't even be thinking this. Of course, it being a Wraith was the problem here.

A sudden scream almost gave Rodney a heart attack, jolting him out of his reverie and right into full-blown panic, scraping across his nerves like broken glass. There was only one thing that made someone shriek like that, and it was so high-pitched he couldn't tell who it was...

Those who only knew Rodney as the cowardly, child-hating scientist might have been surprised at how fast he ran out of the door, although they shouldn't have been. He didn't _hate_ children per se, he just didn't _like_ them, and _no-one_ deserved that and he'd made sure the Wraith had hidden itself away when the kids had come out and they didn't _know_ and it was _hungry_ and it had given up too _fast_ and it had never wanted them to come anyway and, and... and...

Rodney stopped. There were the children, yes. And the Wraith, yes. And a husked corpse at its feet, no, no, no – but it was too big; taller than Rodney even dead, dressed in red leather armour and grey clothes and holding the shattered remains of a crossbow. If this _was_ the raider planet they didn't hand out those weapons to just anyone or maybe they didn't have enough or... he didn't know. He didn't want to; he just wanted to look away and not see the pitiful desiccated remains of what had once been a real, living person, or the thing that killed him, but he couldn't. He couldn't stop looking.

The children were looking as well, and then one – the small boy with the cleaver – opened his mouth. But the terrified wail Rodney had been expecting never materialised.

Instead the little urchin said "Um. Thank you."

It was possible that the only person even more surprised than Rodney was the Wraith itself. Then his brain kicked in. Soldier, children, massacred people, _soljurs got them_, _there are patrols throughout the woods, searching_, duh. Looked like some poor bastard had managed to pick up their tracks at last, and of course the appearance of another soldier would have frightened the kids, with good reason.

The children were gathering around the Wraith, the two smallest twins (young enough to be moronic, Rodney noted) actually hugging the only part of the Wraith they were tall enough to reach. In other circumstances, its expression upon looking down to see two miniature humans clinging to its legs would have been funny. Rodney was reminded irresistibly of the time his cat had walked through paint when he was redecorating his bathroom.

He could _feel_ the words 'Mr Mom' trying to get out. Fortunately the Wraith managed to shake off its admirers and stalk over to where Rodney was standing with a brusque "We must leave."

Rodney looked at it sidelong, which was quite a feat considering it was in front of him. The Wraith looked somewhat better than he had before, but not by much. "We only just got here."

"There will be more soldiers." It glanced up over the heaped bodies as though it could already hear them – which was, Rodney realised with alarm, entirely possible. "The patrols are of _five_ each."

Ace then brushed past him without a second word, presumably to get Sheppard, leaving Rodney literally out in the cold and gaping after him open-mouthed. Ooooh, crap. That meant four more potential enemies, probably on there way_ right now_. He looked around and saw the kids standing in a little huddle, staring at him with wide eyes. Their collective pathetic expressions made him feel guilty enough to snap "What? You heard the... big scary monster. We need to _go_." They stayed frozen in place. "_Now!_"

The shout jolted them awake and sent them running. Rodney caught the arm of the one that passed nearest to him – the taller boy, his hatchet still stuck firmly in his belt. "You – whatever your name is –"

"Niack."

"Huh?"

"My name is Niack. Niack Braentsson."

"Oh." That didn't seem adequate somehow so Rodney added "Good. Anyway, I need to get everyone organised, just like we said. Remember? Get all the stuff I said we needed, then meet back out here. _Quickly_."

Niack considered this. "Will Ace be there?"

Huh? Oh... "Yes, but don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't... well, you know." _Get peckish_, Rodney finished silently.

The boy stared at him blankly, then shrugged. "As long as Ace is there."

He ran inside before Rodney could say anything, which was just as well. In a choice between a, a life-sucking alien bug-vampire and Rodney McKay, genius scientist, the _Wraith_ won? He was even less popular than a _Wraith_? It was unbelievable, not to mention unfair.

A scuffing sound made him freeze. It was probably nothing more than a local animal come to feed on the corpses, but it reminded him that he should have more pressing concerns than popularity contests. It was all relative when you'd been filled with needles or riddled with crossbow bolts. The scuffling sound echoed across the deathly quiet square again, followed by the rattle of falling stones.

"Hey, soh."

Rodney almost shrieked in a very unmanly fashion, before he calmed down enough (he really was going to have a heart attack one of these days) to look down. It was Niack, and with him were the rest of the children – Meera included, although the girl still looked a little groggy. Behind them all was Ace, carrying Sheppard, and the object of much sneaky glances and the odd shuffle sideways... _towards_ him, Rodney couldn't help but observe.

It noticed him staring at its munchkin fan club, and grinned at him. Smugly. It was disturbing how much it resembled Sheppard when it did that.

Bastard.

The kids were loaded down with wrapped bundles supported in weird harnesses-cum-backpacks, Niack with a second that he handed to Rodney. It weighed half a ton, or as close as, and it took a number of frantic minutes in which the scientist tried to figure out which strap went where. Ace, he noted, did not have a backpack or any other burden besides Sheppard. Evidently the munchkins were not morons.

Meera had to help him in the end, which pretty much topped a day full of humiliation as far as Rodney was concerned. She seemed a little shy of him, and was the only one to actively avoid the Wraith. Rodney immediately liked her, assisted by the fact that she got him buckled up in less than a minute.

"Are you done?" the Wraith asked, its voice tinged with sarcasm. Rodney wisely chose to ignore this.

"_We're_ done," he said shortly, and started to walk out of the village.


	9. Cold Journeys: Chapter 3

And, right on the tail of the last update... big thanks to everyone who took the time to review, your comments were read and duly noted. Glad to know people are enjoying Todd and Rodney's time together (even if _they_ aren't) :)

* * *

Grief is a strange and ultimately selfish creature.

Its selfishness is evident; it is self-centred and self-propagating, breeding through sympathetic tears and consolation, or the hearing of anguished words. It cares nothing for function or even decency; it will cripple the bearer whether they are in company or alone, and once it does it does not let go lightly. It focuses only on itself, the ultimate ego crying _me me me_. _My_ pain, _my_ sorrow, _mine_.

It is absent where it should be strong, strong where it should be absent; it obeys no rules because in their most secret natures humans – and perhaps Wraith – are beings of chaos and random chance, and that is where grief likes to nest.

Right now it was nested in Ronon Dex. He wasn't enjoying it very much.

Grief was not new to him. He had seen his future wife killed in front of him, his team brothers slaughtered, a village killed for his stupidity, the ashes of his burnt world seven years dead, former friends turned to traitors and in due course another two notches on his kill tally. He had killed them, despised them, then grieved over their deaths as though mourning real people instead of black-blooded turncoats. Grief was funny like that.

If he had been told that Rodney McKay was to die at the hands of a Wraith before it had happened... well. He would not have been surprised at this, and while distressed he would not have been rendered incapable. Death was an old acquaintance, and McKay had not been one of those he liked very well, team member or not. He would have expected to get over it after a while.

It had been a week. You'd think that would be a long enough while.

They had searched, of course. Followed the most recent 'gate addresses, for all the good they were. There had been nothing; no bases, no recent cullings, no husk left behind in the remains of Lantean BDUs. Eventually everyone had just... given up. Carter had called back the teams, even the ones searching for Sheppard, and everyone whispered they were both gone; Sheppard with his throat slit over a burial pit somewhere, McKay taken to an unnameable hive in the black and cocooned or kept for interrogation. Most agreed that he was almost certainly dead by now.

The ex-runner was no stranger to unpleasantness in death, but the thought of the arrogant, soft, brilliant scientist on his team being tortured and drained dry was a particularly nasty one. The thought of Sheppard lying under a scattering of earth with a bloody neck and sightless eyes was even worse.

Two culprits here; the raiders and the nameless Wraith.

Ronon clenched both hands into fists and swore he would make them both suffer before he killed them.

o.O.o

Ka might, at that point, been willing to bare his throat for Ronon's blade as long as wherever he went did not have humans of any size in it.

This might have been a little unreasonable, and if he had been a little less tired or irritated he would have taken back the thought immediately – not least because he had devoted most of his life to, well, living. As it was, he was starting to become semi-convinced all his efforts at not dieing had been in vain, or that he might find worse at the end of this journey, long or short it might be.

As he had feared, the cubs were slowing them down. They were smaller, shorter-legged, and far less able to deal with the cold than he or even Dr McKay. The trek from the village had stopped and started and stopped and started again until Ka had almost howled in frustration, and even worse, the 'guidance' of the oldest male cub depended greatly on following the roads. They were leaving a trail a blind hatchling could follow, and the _Gàst_ was no blind hatchling.

Ka was starting to seriously consider killing the lot of them, save the oldest male, then bullying both it and McKay into leading him to the 'gate. It would be faster, easier, and safer, but he resisted the temptation. Easier was not always better. Besides, he had seen enough younglings die. He would not delight in seeing more.

What made it worse was the worshipful adoration the – possible mentally retarded – cubs directed at him. He was not used to being liked. It made him nervous, and seemed to be stirring oddly guilty feelings whenever he contemplated an attempted feeding on them at their umpteenth rest period. Most Wraith could go their whole lives without feeling a smidgeon of guilt over anything, but for Ka it was almost as familiar as the feeling of feeding.

This did not, of course, make it any pleasanter to bear.

They had stopped for the night, later than usual but then he had been trying to make up for lost time. He could almost _taste_ the humans nearby, not all of them soldiers. There were wild humans enough in this forest for concern even without pursuit. He hoped a reasonable number might stop by... and if they did, they would only stop once.

He had built a larger den this time, and a fire, and the cubs had clustered around it (more to the point _him_) like the nocturnal bugs drawn to their blood. The two youngest even dared to try and climb into his lap (much to the amusement of McKay) only to be firmly rebuffed (he had _some_ pride left) and forced to settle for a position leaning against his legs (to be steadily ignored). The others arranged themselves around him like the hatchlings had in his Hive when he came to teach; a common duty for the commander of any hive. Besides, he had found it soothing to be around beings too young to be dangerous.

It was easier to think of them as hatchlings. He could tolerate them then. Ka decided this would be his plan of action from now on, insofar as he had a plan of any sorts.

A plan _would_ be good. Ka set about trying to think of one.

o.O.o

Even if his companions were a Wraith, a comatose man, and a bunch of snotty-nosed brats who were practically worshiping said Wraith, Rodney was glad of his place by the fire. The night was even colder than normal, but the fire was very warm and stirred the sluggish blood in his veins wonderfully.

The dinner had been even more wonderful. Actual stew made of actual meat (dried and salted, but what the hell), with cooked vegetables (cooked!) and cheese (real cheese!). He had even managed to get some stew down Sheppard, which had to be doing him more good than the mashed-up bread the man had been forced to live on since his rescue. The man actually had some colour to his skin now, above the grubby (and somewhat bloodstained) clothing the Wraith had looted from the dead.

The man himself was wrapped in blankets and beside the fire, in between Rodney and Ace and as always fast asleep – hopefully to remain that way. Occasionally Sheppard would moan or stir fitfully, and the Wraith would reach out to touch him, making a weird humming noise that made Rodney think of a hive of contented bees. It never failed to make him shudder, but it seemed to sooth Sheppard no end, which was probably the point. But when he'd asked about it, the Wraith had ignored him as steadfastly as it was ignoring the adoring munchkins trying to crawl into its lap.

Bar Meera, and to a lesser extent Dav, both of whom were huddled near Rodney. But even they were only wary, they weren't actually _afraid_, which was weird. Or at least it had been, until Meera gave him the low-down on the local solution to cullings.

"The soldiers came every two or three moons, when Purple Heart was full," she said, pointing up at the lilac crescent hanging overhead. The mingled amethyst and silver light made for some strange shadows, highlighted by the ochre glow of the fire. Most of the children were asleep, and the Wraith was staring into the fire like a Native American shaman trying to read the future in the flames.

"They would take people," the girl continued, drawing her scruffy coat around her thin body and shivering. "Not many, only one, or maybe two. Usually trouble-makers, like Elmin the drunkard last year, or people no-one else wanted, like Avesa the widow. No-one ever talked about them again, but I heard Ma saying they were sent to the desert and dissolved by the Overlords."

"Overlords?" Rodney asked, with a sinking feeling.

"If you say their names they grow angry and punish you," Meera said with a noticeable shudder. "They dissolve people in beams of white light and take them away. Tai and Taira's brother Nalk said they ate them, but I think he was trying to scare us."

Rodney very carefully did not look at the Wraith. Oh boy.

"Zaiq said Ace is an Overlord, but he was lying because if Ace was, he wouldn't be here with us," Meera finished confidently. "He would fly away and forget about us. Zaiq said Ace sucked the soldier dry in the village, as yellowback arracks eat crickbugs, but that might not be feeding. I think he's a sorcerer, like Lord Ilu in the Tower, and was stealing the soldier's life to cast spells."

"Er." A nasty thought occurred to Rodney, as they often did. "Does Lord, er, Ilu steal people's lives, then?"

Meera opened her mouth, but the voice that answered was not hers.

"_Gàst_ do not feed as my kind does," the Wraith said, still watching the flames. Its eyes gleamed green-yellow as cymophane gems. "Nor do they feed as humans do, not entirely. They feed on emotion."

Rodney cleared his throat. "When you say _emotion_..."

"Anger. Fear. Happiness. Sorrow." The words dropped as harshly as dead rocks, and as heavy. The Wraith looked up with eyes as old as the moons lighting them. "Emotions. They do not sustain it, but they are... I do not know how humans describe it. You are aware that, among my kind, fear and defiance is prized amongst humans as food?"

"Um." It wasn't something he really wanted to think about, but... "Yes."

It nodded sombrely. "Adrenaline and noradrenalin adds flavour, a pleasurable sensation. Some of my kind have become... obsessive in their need to taste those emotions while feeding. The _Gàst_ is not so very different. It craves emotions mentally as we do physically. The stronger the feeling is, the more it craves. Particularly despair and terror; those are among the strongest."

Both had almost forgotten Meera, but when she spoke both turned to her. "You said feeding. Feeding on _people_."

Ace regarded her gravely. "I did."

"Are you an Overlord?"

"I would say that I am of their kind."

Rodney tensed in expectation of the frightened wails to come, but Meera surprised him by taking this with a stoicism the Wraith itself might have been proud of. "Why are you here?"

It tilted its head, but almost smiled. Then it pointed to the prone form of Sheppard beside it.

"The _Gàst_ – your lord Ilu – had him in its possession. I stole him back. Originally I had intended to take him to one of my _utina_-hives, those under my command, to heal. But he is too damaged for any but his own hive to repair. That is where I will return him."

Rodney felt his stomach fill with ice. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Why had he always assumed the Wraith would just drop them off at Atlantis like two toddlers to a nursery? It could have just as easily take him to its own kind and force Rodney to help him from there. Why had he assumed it would _want_ to go back to being locked up and handcuffed and having guns pointed it at it every waking hour of the day?

Meera took this all in her stride – again. Rodney was surprised to find he was starting to like her. As much as he could like anyone just starting puberty, anyway. "You haven't killed us. Why?"

"I do not need to," Ace said.

"What happens if you _do_ need to?"

It grinned slightly, and didn't answer. "Take a wild guess," Rodney muttered, wincing at the thought.

"I would not feed on you," The Wraith rumbled, as if that was supposed to be _comforting_. "Cubs are too small for adequate feedings. More likely I would simply leave."

"The soldiers would find us. Or we'd freeze. Or starve."

"That is not my concern," it said frankly. "I need Dr McKay still, to stop the Asurans, and for him to function properly I need John Sheppard, alive and whole, and for that to happen I need Niack, who Dr McKay tells me can lead me to the 'gate. I need no-one else. "

Meera considered this. "Then why let us come with you?"

"John Sheppard would wish it," it said simply. "And... Overlord... though I may be, I do not relish killing cubs. You have not slowed our journey enough to merit death. As long as you never do, you will not die."

Meera merely blinked solemnly and nodded. "Alright."

Rodney opened his mouth to jump in, but one look from the Wraith (who was sitting quite close) made him shut it again. Fine. _Fine_. If the head munchkin wanted to literally made deals with the devil, that was no skin off his nose. He yawned deliberately and stretched, saying "If you two have quite finished the life-and-death bargaining, I think its time for bed. Well, ground and blankets anyway."

Meera jumped to it immediately, rousing the others, then herding them in front of her as they shuffled sleepily into the new Wraith-built igloo. Now if only _his_ minions could be that quick off the mark.

He grabbed his own blanket, then bent to help Ace pick up Sheppard. It shrugged him off and deposited the man inside the snow-cave without comment, then took up position outside the entrance. When Rodney asked irritably if it was coming inside, it would only say that the den was too small, and the children would have to keep Sheppard warm instead. It would stand guard until morning.

Rodney didn't press the matter – he had no real wish to share a confined space with a life-sucking alien – and went inside quickly, spurred by the cold away from the fire. The children were already cuddled around Sheppard like puppies, but he managed to squeeze in reasonably close to his friend, close enough to see the week-old beard sprouting from his gaunt cheeks to match his own, and the slight crease of a frown between his eyebrows.

"You think _you've_ got problems," Rodney muttered, before surrendering to the dark.

o.O.o

He was alone.

The dead hadn't turned up yet; he wondered if they ever would. Even rotting corpses with maggots for blood didn't like him, apparently. After them had come his betrayers – all three of them – who had taunted him and called him weak, saying they were glad they had left someone so unlucky and pathetic behind. But after a while even they had left, leaving him to sit on the dark sand by himself.

He was staring into the north. Everywhere else the horizon was flat and empty, but the north had become different a short time ago. Now its edges were blurred and fuzzy, spiked against the putrid yellow sky like a ragged fence.

John got up and started to walk.

It didn't take long to reach the horizon – if it had _been_ the horizon. Reality was funny here, like crumpled paper. Distances were squashed together or pulled apart. Sometimes he thought he could travel by thought alone.

When he reached the ragged edge he saw that the spikes were trees, huge conifers, and evergreens dripping with moisture. As he stood in the sand he was slowly crisping in the heat like a grub in a frying pan, but from the forest there was a cold breeze.

He didn't like heat. He followed the wind inside.

It was cool, with an edge of ice in the air, and damp as an autumn morning even though the light was pale, and the trees blocked most of it, turning the rest to twilight. The floor was carpeted at first with rotting needles, but then the going got tougher, with brown otherworldly bracken and tangled bushes forcing him to search for animal paths through the brush. It was completely silent and still, with a hush to the air almost like that of a cathedral – or a den of scared mice when a cat stalks nearby.

John shivered, pushed through the undergrowth, and stepped on something that crunched unpleasantly. He looked down.

It was a hand.

John froze like a rabbit, then stepped backwards. The hand was attached to an arm, with was attached to a body, which was lying in a bed of crushed alien ferns, one withered limb still wrapped around a stunner. The Wraith had died snarling but it had died anyway for all its nerve; the gaping wound on its bared and shrivelled chest a mute reminder that it was not only humans who could end their lives as husks. For a moment it reminded him a little of Bob, from the look of it and the defiance on its dead face. Around the sunken right eye were strange markings, like a cobweb or an exploding star rendered in black ink.

John moved forward timidly, about to see if the stunner had any power left in it, when a crashing sound in the undergrowth made him whirl. The Wraith that forced its way into the trampled clearing was the corpse's living double, but the starburst tattoo was around its left eye and it was shorter and stockier. It saw the dead body and howled with grief and a terrible rage, then launched itself at John like a wounded bear.

John stumbled back but it was on him an instant, ripping open his shirt and slamming its hand into his chest with a snarl of pure hatred.

Then there was pain, nothing but pain and he screamed, the agonised sounds mingling with those of his feeder until he couldn't tell who was in more pain, and John was falling backwards, backwards into a pit, falling into darkness but the forest was following him down...

o.O.o

Ka woke as suddenly and unexpectedly as though someone had shot him. For a moment the pain in his arm made him think someone _had_, but then he realised the limb had become twisted under him as he slept, and it was only suffering from a self-induced lack of blood. He shook his briskly, shaking off a light dusting of snowfall, then looked up. Fat white flakes were drifting down from the sky, and his body was already speckled with them.

In the forest it had been spring...

But no Sheppard, not outside the dream. Ka fell into remembrance. Kyu had not been killed by humans or even by Lanteans – he had died more than two decades of millennia before the war with the Lanteans had even started. No, there had been an enemy hive, a rival to a new feeding ground, that was all. An ambush while hunting. A stupid, petty death for someone who had been neither.

The Wraith shook away such thoughts and started to rub the blood through his veins, stretching his body through exercises he had learnt before he had ever even seen a Lantean. As always the balanced movements calmed him and warmed him, although the air was not as bitter as it would have been for a human; like all Wraith his internal body temperature made the air seem merely chilly.

A thought occurred to Ka, and he peered inside the den. Sheppard was still, but breathing noticeably and looking adequately warmed; the cubs had snuggled up around him like a nest of newborn kits, McKay sleeping next to him and – Ka almost smiled – snoring fit to shake the roof down. It was a wonder any of the others could sleep through such a racket.

He pulled his head out and sat back down, crouched against the cold that was creeping back now the fire had gone out. Body heat difference or not, he wasn't fool enough to trust the weather here. His experience after the blizzard showed how far the temperature could drop on this planet; more than enough to send him into hibernation, or perhaps even kill him if he wasn't careful. But he _would_ be careful.

Ka burrowed down into the snow and waited for sleep.

Above him the snow continued to fall.

o.O.o

The scream woke her at dawn.

Meera was up and clambering over the forever-asleep offworlder before it had had time to die away and she knew immediately by its tone that it belonged to one of the twins. Tai or Taira, who had seen their elder brother and parents slaughtered in front of their eyes before Niack's father had taken advantage of the chaos and hidden them in the root cellar. She had seen Braent's corpse as they left the village, his head torn clean off and his shirt and boots gone. Both appeared to be covering the offworlder now, which she didn't like to think about. She didn't like to think that she might have made a mistake about Ace, that he might have lied the day before and gotten hungry during the night. Or the soldiers might have come back.

The unseen gods must have answered her prayers in their own malicious way, because it was neither soldiers nor Ace who held the wriggling, crying Taira in one meaty hand, but a man in a horned helmet with a waxed forked beard. There were others of the same ilk in a circle around him, dressed in badly-tanned leathers and rusted chain mail shirts, all of them holding crossbows or needle guns stolen from the elite raiding parties that served the Chancellor and his council of lords. One of them, wearing a patch over an ugly purple scar that sliced through his left eye, was holding the offworlder Rodney in an armlock, a serrated dagger blade hovering near the man's throat. Rodney was almost as white as the snow being trampled underfoot, his eyes swallowing his face like a startled jacrab.

The man with the helmet shook Taira and snarled at her to be quiet, then looked at Meera. Her heart pounded when he beckoned her towards him with a grin, but she stepped forward anyway, her coat feeling like a corpse's mantle. Inside was a kitchen knife she had stolen early on, and she gripped it firmly with one hand. She didn't like the looks they were giving her, or the leers being shot her way. She remembered that Nalk had looked at Ahrisa in the same sort of way, but it shouldn't because Ahrisa was pretty and taller than her and Nalk had wanted to marry her. She was only thirteen, even if she had wanted to marry Nalk because Ahrisa had been _dumb_, everyone had known that, but she wasn't old enough to marry or do the married-person things Nalk had tried to explain once only he'd gone all red and couldn't finish and she'd thought it sounded icky anyway.

Even so, Nalk had been handsome and funny and worth putting up with icky stuff for, but these men weren't. They were ugly and spotty and she could smell the one with the helmet even from here, out of reach of his arm and the axe it held. Meera stopped right there, feeling sick and wanting to run, but she couldn't. She could see the others huddled together in the middle of the strange men, and she'd said she'd look after them, even if she had just been lying to stop them panicking after everyone died. But a promise was a promise.

And where was Ace?

Meera held her chin up anyway, making the helmeted man laugh. "Well now, little lady," he said mockingly. "What are you doing out here on a cold day like this?"

"We're just travellers," she said in a little, trembling voice despite her efforts to stay calm and cool. "We don't have anything worth taking. We're trying to get to the 'gate, that's all."

"Is that so?" The man grinned, showing rotten teeth. Even Ace hadn't had teeth that bad – _hadn't had_? Meera fought back a surge of panic at the thought that these men might have killed Ace already. Why else would he not be there? Maybe her fear showed in her face, because the grin grew wider. "Nothing worth taking, you say? What's this _nothing_ that I see scattered around in blankets and rugs?"

She heard the other men sniggering, and the sob of Zaiq. One of the blankets was his, a patched one that his mother, the village healer, had made. He'd had it since he was smaller than the twins. "Just food and cooking pots. You can see that. It isn't worth stealing."

"Stealing? I think she just insulted us, boys." The men sniggered again and Meera felt all hot and sick inside. The man shook his head as though disappointed in her, his fingers digging into Taira's until she whimpered in pain, the fixed her with a cold stare. "Now, little lady, listen well and good, because your life depends on it. I am Captain Uskoldig and these are my men. We do not _steal_. _Stealing_ implies theft, and theft implies ownership and –" he leant forward, not losing his grip in either the axe or Taira "– the weak do not own things. They are merely caretakers until the strong arrive to claim what is rightfully theirs. And you, little lady, are weak." He glanced back at the offworlder Rodney scornfully. "As are the rest of your friends."

Her heart, already pounding, missed a beat. Unless Ace had suddenly took ill in the night they couldn't have met him, because no sane person would call an Overlord weak. She flicked her eyes around surreptitiously, but couldn't see a body.

Which led to her old question. _Where was he? _

Captain Uskoldig appeared to take her silence as acquiescence, because he nodded agreeably. "Good girl. Keep quiet and this'll all be over soon. Understand?" Meera nodded fearfully, but a movement drew her gaze briefly upwards. She snapped her face down level at once, her palms clammy. Uskoldig did not seem to notice. "Now, my tastes don't run so young but some of my men prefer 'em that way, so you just behave yourself and they'll finish quickly as quick can be. You'll save yourself a lot of pain by not struggling and doing as you're told, then we can all be on our merry way to Darosia, and you and your friends will be safely sold and _we'll_ be safely rich. And no-one will die. That's fair isn't it?"

Rodney had gone very still, but Meera was not watching him. She was holding the bandit's gaze levelly, careful not to look behind him or behind _her_, where she could hear someone else walking towards the snow den. Uskoldig called over her shoulder "What's in there Voros?"

"Just some blankets and a sleeping man, soh-Uskoldig."

"Worth selling?"

"Nah, wouldn't say so. Skinny as a stick of wood, captain. Looks sick to me."

"He's not sick," Rodney said shrilly, his voice wavering in fear, "he's just sleeping a lo–"

The man holding him punched him in the stomach with sudden violence, making one of the others – she thought it might be her brother Dav – scream. Uskoldig did not look around, but smiled unpleasantly at her and called over her shoulder again. Meera didn't look at him, but at the space over his head, at the mess of branches in the trees behind him.

"Kill him, Voros. He's not worth selling."

The branches rustled. Meera sighed almost mournfully, making him scowl at her. "So sad, little lady?"

"Yes," she said. "But not for you. Although I think if you'd left him alone you might have lived."

The scowl deepened as Uskoldig screwed up his expression irritably. "Pfah. Empty words, and empty words you'll regret later. What made you say them, little lady?"

Voros gasped in terror from the snow den as Meera said calmly "Look behind you."

Uskoldig turned. Then Ace killed him.

The murder was quick but it couldn't really be called graceful; Ace simply took hold of the man's chin and twisted it sideways, almost tearing Uskoldig's head off with the movement. Taira ran from the corpse's relaxing grip as it slackened and was dropped disdainfully, collapsing in the snow to stain it with gouts of blood and yellow urine from its emptying bladder. Then Ace turned to the others.

And grinned.

The fight was brutal and unsurprisingly fierce. Most of the bandits unfroze in time to run from the camp as though pursued by demons, but a few braver ones stayed. Meera was pushed out of the way as a man in a leather baldric and skullcap rimmed with fur ran towards the fighting Overlord – presumably Voros. Meera landed heavily, then ran inside the snow den to check that the offworlder Sheppard was alright.

He was unhurt, but she could see it had been a near miss. A small nick on the side of his neck showed how close he had been to having his throat slit. Meera made sure he didn't have any other injuries before running back outside to see if the coast was clear.

It wasn't. Some of the bandits remained scattered but some had returned when it was clear Ace had no backup or weapons – she could see the small gun lying abandoned in the snow and wondered why he had dropped it. The Overlord was spinning and striking like an angry 'pard but he was badly outnumbered, and one of the men had had the sense enough to keep hold of his crossbow. One arrow missed completely and smacked into a tree, another whistled past Ace's ear, and another hit him in the arm hard enough for the point to emerge from the other end.

The Overlord hissed and knocked the bowman over backwards with a blow that must have felt like a falling log, but Meera could still see dark, strangely thick blood spouting from the arm that dealt the blow. She looked around desperately, but there was no-one able to help him; Rodney was wrestling with the man who had been holding him, and the rest of their little group was huddled in a clump as far away from the fighting as possible.

She couldn't really blame them. They had seen so much death lately.

The kitchen knife slipped in her hands as she drew it from its inside pocket, the bone handle smooth and cold as death. It was meant to cut vegetable, but she had sharpened it to a point and whetted it on one of her Da's grindstones until it gleamed a dull silver. Meera didn't even now how to use it properly, but Ace was giving a fair demonstration. He had produced an evil-looking dagger from somewhere, and had driven most of the bandits back. She wavered, afraid to help but knowing she might have to.

A yell interrupted her dithering and made her turn in time to see Rodney on the ground, his captor standing over him with a drawn sword. She didn't stop to think how much bigger the man was, or that he was in armour, but did the only thing she could think of and jumped on his back to cling like a demented treerat.

The bandit yelped and pulled her off at once with an angry snarl, but Rodney had not wasted any time getting up and attacking again, beating at the man's head with a rock he'd grabbed from under the snow. A crimson spray spurted out over both of them, but Meera didn't see more because it was then a hot, fleshy hand clamped over her mouth. Another pinned her arms down beside her, against a body that stunk of rotting hides and sweat.

"Time to go, little lady," whispered a voice in her ear she thought might be Voros. The strip of thick leather pressed against her back confirmed this. Meera felt the hand pinning her start groping, touching places that made her feel nauseous and repulsed, so she took the only course of action open to her.

She bit down. Hard.

Voros cursed and loosened his grip momentarily, letting her sneak her hand free. Meera could taste his blood in her mouth, harsh and foul, but didn't dare paused to spit. She felt him scrabbling at her throat, trying to strangle her in his fury, and panicked. Almost instinctively she reversed the knife, the handle slipping over a slick of her sweat, and stabbed into the body behind her blindly, shrieking to match the screams echoing around the camp.

There was a choked cry. The hands fell away from her neck and she lurched forward, gasping and crying in terror, her hair whipping across her face as she turned. Voros was writhing on the ground and clutching the skin over his left kidney, which was oozing thick red blood in a gushing stream. He wheezed and glared up at her, baring yellow teeth hatefully. "You... you pox-ridden _whore_!"

She didn't know what the word meant, but she guessed it was an insult. The screams had died away, and she could see why now; the last of the bandits was dead and Ace was drawing his hand away from the chest of the corpse – the withered, grey-skinned corpse. Meera trembled all over as he got up and started walking to her, his hand dripping red, one arm still pierced with the crossbow arrow.

He stopped on the other side of the thrashing bandit, regarding the fallen man mildly. Meera was amazed at the contrast; if he had been a baresark 'pard before he was now the same creature at ease and moving through its own territory, utterly content despite the bolt still through his arm. Behind him Rodney was struggling upright from his own opponent, the other's head turned to crimson mush.

The Overlord looked up and nodded to the knife in her hand. Meera's mouth dried when she realised what he meant.

"I... I can't." It was one thing to stab a man when frightened and in danger, but quite another to cut his throat as he lay helpless. She'd never even killed a jacrab.

"You must." Ace was regarding her sternly, indifferent to the agonised moans of the man between them. "The hunter who cripples the prey must kill it. That is an older law than any invented by humans."

He was right. She'd heard Da speaking of it to one of his drinking buddies one night. Da had been a trapper, and a good one, but she had never been able to love him no matter how hard she tried. When in a good mood he was kindness itself but when angered, even by something as petty as a stingy fur merchant, he had thrown things and shouted and occasionally even struck Meera or her mother. The blows had become more frequent after his accident in the woods and his mutilated leg had led him to drinking.

If he could see her dithering now he would probably hit her again. Meera flinched when Ace lifted his hand, but he did nothing but point downwards towards Voros. For a moment she thought there was something almost angry in his eyes at her cringing, which of course only made her even more scared.

The Overlord was, however, more patient than her father. "He is wounded mortally. Such injuries are eventually fatal. As it was you who caused it, it is you who must spare him the pain."

"I don't, I can't..." Meera was appalled to find she was starting to cry, but she couldn't seem to stop. "I don't know _how_."

A sigh ruffled the air, then a long fingered – and very cold – hand wrapped around hers. Ace guided the blade downwards, forcing them both to kneel on either side of the writhing Voros, the long-fingered green-skinned hand of the Overlord swamping her own smaller one. Meera started to cry even harder as the tip of the knife pricked Voros's throat above the apple, Ace pinning down the man with his free arm, the one still punctured with the bolt. Merciless green-yellow eyes stared at her. "Here."

"Um." It was the offworlder Rodney; he was behind Ace and watching with a mixture of pity and horror. "Look, can't you just... I mean, she's just a kid."

"She must do this." The eyes of the Overlord were hard but not unkind. "Push down."

"I can't," Meera sobbed.

"Yes you can. Push down." He tightened his grip over her hand and started to press himself, the knife sinking in with excruciating slowness. Beneath him Voros gave a gurgling scream, unable to move beneath the weight of Ace's other grip, arrow and all.

Meera wasn't even trying to impede the tears anymore. "Stop!"

"No." He continued to press slowly, and Voros screamed again. "Push down. It is you who must finish this. Pretend it is only soft earth, if that aids you, but _push down_."

Meera sobbed again but closed her eyes and did as she was told. It wasn't a man she was stabbing, but a figure made of clay, and the screams were all in her head. She tightened her sweaty grip underneath Ace's dry one... and pushed.

The knife slid down with a sickening rip as though through damp cloth, grating on something hard she realised after a moment was bone. Her eyes flew open, and she saw Voros, his throat spurting a crimson tide of blood, unable to even cry out as his own fluids choked him. She screamed and tried to pull away, but Ace's grip held her as surely as the knife blade, and she was only allowed to let go and recoil backwards when Voros had died, his hateful sightless eyes still fixed on her.

She barely felt the awkward hand patting her shoulder, or the angry words from Rodney. She could only hear the revolting tearing sound of the knife ramming home, the grate of the tip on Voros's spine. Without time to warn the man next to her, Meera threw up.

There was a cry of disgust, followed immediately by another. "Oh for fuck's sake you can't seriously be–"

"Be quiet, Dr McKay. Attend to Sheppard and the other cubs." If Rodney started to argue it was drowned out in an angry snarl. "Do not try to fight me, Dr McKay, I am not feeling very patient today. _Go away_. _Now_."

Evidently Rodney did, because when Meera opened her eyes he was outside the snow den crouching down, and Ace was kneeling in front of her. The bloody knife was in his hands, the handle reversed towards her.

"Your weapon," he said gruffly, one arm held stiff around the arrow. It occurred to her how much it must hurt. "Please clean it. I need it now."

She sniffled but took the knife anyway, the hilt disgustingly tacky under her skin. Ace waited until she had wiped it perfunctorily on one sleeve, the said almost politely "I would like to borrow it for a moment. My own weapon will be somewhat clumsy for what I need to do."

Meera handed over the knife without a second thought, receiving a heavy curved dagger in return. In her small hands it looked almost like a short sword, and her own blade looked like a pocket knife in the hands of the Overlord. He gripped it delicately then brought it up to his own arm, the one still pierced with the arrow.

Meera's horrified gasp stopped him. "No! Let Zaiq draw it out; his mother was our herb-woman. He can dress the wound and help it heal."

"I am already healed. See here." He pulled at the hole in the leather of his coat, and Meera saw a sight both disgusting and intriguing. The wound had indeed healed, but it had healed around the arrow, which looked like an old nail sticking through a tree branch. "I must cut away the arrowhead and draw out the shaft. It will not be easy. You should leave."

Meera wince at the thought of anyone trying to pull a bolt out of an already-healed arm – Overlord or not. But it surely couldn't be worse than killing a helpless man? "I'll stay."

"Very well." Ace wasted no more breath on trying to dissuade her, but brought the edge of the knife to the space behind the iron arrowhead and started to saw at it. From the way his jaw worked the movement was horribly painful, but he didn't let up. Meera said nothing until the head had dropped away and the knife handed back to her. She took it without protest.

Ace bared a great deal of teeth, then grasped the other side of the bolt and started to pull.

The process was not nearly as slow as killing Voros had been, but it was still as agonizing despite Meera merely having to watch. The smooth wood made revolting sucking sounds as it was tugged out, jarring near the elbow before being freed with one quick jerk. Ace's skin had turned a nasty grey colour by then, but he dropped the bloody shaft without comment and pressed over the wound. It healed before her eyes until not even a scar remained; the blood and the puncture in the sleeve the only signs he had been hurt at all.

Ace pulled at the tear in mild disgust, Meera watching saucer-eyed. "Does it still hurt?"

"No. But now I must mend my coat." That was true; there were slashes lower down in the thick leather from the bandit's swords, although most of the blows had been turned by the resistance of the tanned hide. "Very tedious."

She couldn't understand why he was worrying about his clothes after being shot with arrows and struck with swords. "But they tried to kill you!"

"True. But my skin will heal." Ace rose and gestured that she should do likewise. She did so at once. "My coat will not."

There really, Meera thought absently as she followed him back to the camp through the blood-soaked snow, wasn't much one could say to that.

o.O.o

They gathered things up and left the camp in a hurry, eating a breakfast of half-stale bread and crumbly white cheese as they walked. Rodney might have objected if he hadn't seen for himself some of the bandits escape, and known instinctively that they _would_ run into soldiers at some point, willingly or not. He'd actually wanted to leave immediately, but hung around long enough to loot the scattered corpses with an air of detachment he would never have believed possible before today.

Of course before today he would never have beat a man over the head with a rock until his skull split, either. Or stood by as others were fed on, or watched a girl barely in her teens stab a helpless man through the throat. Granted it wasn't likely he could have stopped either of those last two things happening, but he could have _tried_. Rodney knew that Sheppard would have tried.

_Well bully for Sheppard, but I'm not him. _

He couldn't stop thinking about it though. Rodney hated violence (especially when it was aimed at _him_), and felt weak at the sight of blood. But he had turned someone's face to mush this morning with a rock, mashing the skin and shattering the nose and knocking out the teeth. And now he was eating his breakfast as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn't become a murderer.

Logically he knew he'd had no choice; the bandit had been trying to kill him. But that didn't stop the image replaying in his mind; the face of the man had been a red circle with a black hole in the bottom half, sparkling white teeth peeking through the gore like stars. Rodney felt his gorge rise, and had to hold his breath until the urge to vomit had passed. His mouth tasted of bile and sour milk, and he knew there was no point in trying to continue his breakfast; he shoved what was left of the bread and cheese inside his coat pocket and carried on trying not to think.

The only plus point – if it could be called that – was that the recent feeding meant the Wraith was in a better temper than it had been in, well, ever, despite the loss of its useless stunner (Rodney had asked and been bluntly told it was of no more use; _why_ it wasn't the Wraith wouldn't say). It was more tolerant of the frequent rests the kids (and Rodney) needed, and at some points seemed almost amiable. For a Wraith, anyway.

He was walking alongside it now, letting Meera fall back to the easier position at the rear, where the snow was packed flat by the footsteps of those in front. For most of the journey Rodney was too tired to talk much, except to berate the Wraith occasionally for leaving the kids behind, but then they hit a dried-up streambed that was almost flat and were able to move faster than before. Rodney ate the rest of his breakfast, and mentally plotted a lightning raid on the kitchens as soon as he stepped back into Atlantis. And he was never, ever hiking anywhere ever again.

A sudden dip in the ground made him stumble. The Wraith glanced sideways. "Pay attention, Dr McKay."

"Shut up," he snapped, staggering upright and carrying on while snow slid down the insides of his boots. Not one of his most witty comebacks, or one of the wisest, but then he was tired. "I was thinking... deep, sciencey thoughts and was momentarily distracted."

"'Sciencey'?" it said in amusement. In its arms Sheppard slept on oblivious. Lucky bastard.

"Things to do with science," Rodney retorted, "_not_ that you'd understand any of them."

"I am a scientist as well, Dr McKay," it said mildly.

"Ha! Says someone who tore off someone's _head_ this morning."

"Whose accuser spilt another human's brains on the ground soon afterwards," the Wraith countered.

"I was defending myself!"

"As was I."

Rodney walked on a little further before muttering "You weren't defending yourself when you killed that one with the baldric."

"The female cub killed him. As she should have."

"Bullshit! You forced her to," Rodney snarled. "She would never have killed him if you hadn't forced her."

"He would have lingered in agony for days," it replied with a slight edge to its voice. "Is this your vaunted 'empathy'?"

"No! No it's... you can't just go around _killing_ people." Rodney said lamely.

"Why not?" asked the Wraith. "You do."

The remark stung. "That's not fair!"

"Fair?" The Wraith suddenly stopped, its good temper a thing of mere memory and loomed over Rodney menacingly. "Fair! What is _fair_? Is it _fair_ that my kind is starving in only the second famine of our entire history? Is it _fair_ that we are being hunted across the galaxy by indestructible machines _you_ set on us? If fairness existed I would be in my hive with my _lўf'géfa_ and my son, the _Gàst_ nothing but a hatchling story! Do not lecture me on fairness, Dr McKay."

Rodney swallowed, nodding quickly. He could feel the children watching them. "Right, right. Gotcha."

It eyed him balefully, then snorted in utter contempt and resumed walking. Rodney breathed a little easier and did likewise, although he stayed back a few feet just in case. Damn it! He was walking through an arctic winter with a troupe of munchkins and a pissed-off Wraith carrying his psychotic and thankfully comatose best friend, in the vague hope that one of said munchkins had given said Wraith the right directions and wasn't lying or mistaken or just had a bad memory, being pursued by a mythical monster that apparently even _Wraith_ were frightened of.

And he'd _volunteered_ to come. That was the part that rankled, because he couldn't reasonably complain about all this. He'd _volunteered_. That made this _his_ fault. Well – Rodney glanced at the back of the Wraith with a degree of loathing – some of it, maybe.

The rest of the journey was silent, the making of their second camp even more so. The Wraith built another igloo and windbreak while Niack got out a tinderbox and the others gathered wood, bringing back enough for a reasonable blaze. Meera made a passable soup from some of the more suspect vegetables, and Rodney managed to get most of two cupfuls down Sheppard. A loaf of bread was torn up and shared around as well, but he didn't even want attempt to feed that to an unconsciousness man.

Near the end of the meal the Wraith extracted a small leather pouch from a hidden pocket, then proceeded to struggle out of its heavy coat. Rodney watched with bewilderment, wondering if it had finally snapped, before it produced a curved silver needle and a length of thread from the pouch, settled the coat over its knees, and started to sew up a tear near the bottom.

Oh. Dear God.

Rodney and the children watched in mute fascination as it steadily closed up the rip, wholly ignoring its audience, then started on another. Finally one of the kids spoke up – one of the blond twins that sounded as though they might be male.

"Why you doing that?"

The Wraith didn't look up. "Because it needs doing."

This appeared to perplex the brat for a moment, but he didn't stay silent for long. "But it's woman's work."

Rodney winced, partly because, well, _Wraith_ here, and partly because he'd been working with Carter for a while now and some things just stuck. This led to a speculation on whether Carter could actually sew, which in turn led to a mental image of her doing housework and for some reason wearing a skimpy maid outfit...

Wow. Sweet dreams tonight.

This happy, happy image was shattered by the Wraith's reply. It had deigned to look up now. "Am I either human or female?"

_Better work on the makeup a bit first_, thought Rodney uncharitably, then cursed himself for the mental picture that arose. Now perhaps a mental eraser would come in handy...

"No," the boy mumbled.

"Yet I am still doing it, which would suggest not only human females can, would it not?"

The brat reddened. "Guess so."

A thought struck Rodney so suddenly he simply had to ask the question it provoked. "What're your coats made out of anyway?

"Human skins," it said absently, snapping off a thread.

Rodney gaped at it, then swore. "You sick twisted evil little..." He stopped and narrowed his eyes suspiciously when he noticed its shoulders were shaking. "Are you _laughing_?"

The thin façade cracked and the Wraith started to howl like a tickled wolf. Rodney swore again. "Son of a... you're _pulling my leg_?"

"Your leg?" It controlled itself, although the smug expression was almost as unnerving as the laughter. "I do not see what you leg has to do with this. It was..." – it grinned; not a pleasant expression on a Wraith at the best of times, and this one was gloating with the best of them – "a little Wraith humour."

Rodney's ears turned red. "_Bastard_."

"You should not be so gullible," the Wraith reproved with a smirk. "Or have such a poor memory. When we feed, our prey become withered and dry. How could we skin them? And if we _did_ use the hides of your kind, we would be wasting a valuable food source."

There was nothing reasonable Rodney could think to reply to this, so he said nothing. _Suckered by a Wraith. Thank God Sheppard can't hear this_.

It smirked at him a little more before looking back down again, grinning like a bear trap but without speaking any further, for which Rodney was grateful. He was trying to bring back Carter in the maid outfit when Dav suddenly piped up "Where's Meera?"

Everyone – well, bar one; Sheppard was still wrapped in his cocoon of blankets and sleeping soundly, thank God – looked up and looked around. Dav's sister was nowhere in sight, and while they had been talking or daydreaming or, yes, sewing, night had fallen. Rodney had a moment's panicked thought that a wild animal might have taken her, but that was insane because they had a fire and a freaking _Wraith_, and anyway they would have heard something.

"Did the bad men come back?" one of the twins asked tearfully.

"Maybe she just went away," the medium-sized boy – Zaiq? – said reassuringly. He was somewhat darker skinned than the others, with slighter bones and a delicate face, and he carried a patchwork bag with him everywhere almost half as big as he was. "She was sad when we stopped here."

Rodney glanced at the Wraith and found himself sharing a look with it as it glanced back. He knew it was probably thinking what he was thinking; it was dark, cold, and starting to snow again, and anyone who wandered into the woods tonight stood a good chance of never making it back. Dav started to get upset and bawl for his sister, which set off the twins as well. The other two had a little more grit, but even they looked frightened. He could sympathise with them – he knew exactly what had to be said and hated every word of it.

"Look, you kids stay here." Everyone under the age of twelve looked at him with tearful eyes. Good grief, when had he become a nursemaid again? "I'll, er, look for Meera. She's probably left tracks or something. You stay here with Sheppard in the igloo and keep the fire going."

"Igloo?" Niack asked in bemusement at the same time the Wraith said "There are tracks here."

Rodney tried not to swallow. Dammit it was _cold_ out there. "There, see? _I'll_ go find her. But you have to stay here, understand?" He wasn't about to let a bunch of kids run around in the dark on a night like this, especially after an emotionally traumatised girl with a knife who might even have done something... silly... in her grief over killing someone. He tried to banish the gory image from his mind, but it was as stubborn to remove as a blood stain.

Much to his surprise they obeyed him, helping him carry Sheppard into the igloo and sitting down around him to huddle fearfully together. Much to his even greater surprise the Wraith joined him wordlessly when he started to follow the footprints, pulling on its newly-repaired coat and falling in behind him without comment.

The girl wasn't really very hard to find. The tracks meandered and wandered around fallen branches, hidden tangles of frosted bracken and animal burrows, eventually ending up leading to a fallen tree covered in snow and one forlorn figure seated on it, her legs tucked under her chin and her arms wrapped around her knees.

Perhaps wisely, the Wraith let him go forward to greet her alone, staying at a polite distance behind him. "Um, hey."

Meera sniffled but said nothing. Crap, he was terrible at comforting people. He was terrible at comforting _himself_ most of the time. "Mind if I sit down?"

Another sniff. Taking that as a no, Rodney sat, doing his best to ignore the stabbing cold leaching through the seat of his pants. "Want to talk? Sorry, I'm not too good at, at being nice to people. Especially in the cold. Uh. If it helps, you acted completely in self defence. You shouldn't feel guilty over, over what happened. Sometimes things just... happen."

Meera started to sob, and Rodney started to panic. "Oh God, jeez, I'm sorry! See, I told you I'm crap at being nice. Just, just ignore what I said. Whatever I said." She sobbed even harder and he tried his luck patting her shoulder gingerly.

The touch seemed to open a new set of floodgates. Meera started to cry in earnest, sobbing "I'm s-sorry, s-soh-Rodney, I just, I..." she buried her face in her arms, muffling what came next, "I w-want my _momma_!"

Oh God. Rodney tried the patting again, only to be tapped on the shoulder himself and almost imitating Meera. The Wraith huffed in exasperation. "Return to the others. I will stay."

"What? Have you lost your _mind_?" Rodney glared at him. "Apart from being the cause of her problems to start with, what the hell would you know about weeping children?"

It glared at him, and he remembered something from earlier that day.

_If fairness existed I would be in my hive with my _lўf'géfa_ and my son._

Rodney felt himself flush slightly, but said nothing. Eventually it answered him.

"I did not slay her family, Dr McKay," it said evenly, perhaps just too tired to argue or get angry. Luckily. "And I know a little of children. Even weeping ones."

If it had been anywhere else, _with_ anyone else, Rodney would have said something sarcastic about how it had probably caused most of the weeping to start with. However, something in its expression suggested that might be a bad idea. Rodney therefore simply shut his mouth, nodded silently, and started to follow their footprints back into the camp.

He glanced behind only once. The Wraith was sitting beside Meera, looking as though it was talking to her, and Meera was listening.

Rodney turned back quickly and didn't look again.

o.O.o

When he reached the camp he was immediately swamped by anxious brats asking about their nominal leader, leaving Sheppard literally out in the cold – well, in the igloo in the cold, anyway. Rodney berated them soundly for leaving him, then reassured them that Meera was safe and well before sending them back into the igloo and telling them to sleep. Unsurprisingly, they paid no attention to him at all.

_Well no, why would they?_ Rodney thought sourly. _I don't tear people's heads off or suck them dry. _

The silver moon had crested over the trees before the Wraith came back with Meera, to be subjected to a second brat-attack. The girl was red-eyed but smiling – a wobbly smile, perhaps, but still: smiling – the Wraith as expressionless as ever. It did not speak, but then Rodney hadn't expected it to.

Besides, he had another source to rely on.

The other children were sent quickly inside, but Rodney pulled Meera aside before they followed. He wasn't about to believe a _Wraith_ had just turned child psychologist and flipped off the girl's trauma in the space of an hour.

He might as well have saved his breath. Meera wasn't saying anything.

"He asked me not to repeat what he said," she told him after his awkward enquiry as to the state of her mental health. "But it was... I am glad he said it. It doesn't make things any better, but it makes them... more understandable. Easier to deal with."

Rodney exercised great control in not letting his jaw touch the ground in astonishment. "Oh? Made you lie down on a leather sofa, did he? Showed you ink blots and asked you if any of them looked like close family members?"

Her lower lip started to tremble at the mention of_ family members_. Oh shit. Well done McKay, prove the Wraith right about human intelligence why don't you. She didn't start crying, which he was unutterably thankful for. "No. He had no ink or _so-fa_. We just talked."

"Right, right," Rodney said with desperate cheeriness. "That's okay then. Just as long as you feel better."

"I feel much better," she said flatly, then went inside without deigning to give him a backwards glance. Rodney looked up and saw the Wraith watching him with an expression that could only be called patronising. The last dregs of his patience evaporated to a fine mist.

"What?" Rodney snapped. It smirked but said nothing. Feeling a complete fool, Rodney turned and went inside to sleep. The Wraith waited for him to be completely inside before pulling a cover of brush and woven branches over the entrance then settling down for the night.

Inside the den it was black as bear's armpit and smelt worse, but with the combined body heat of six children and two adults it was almost blissfully lukewarm instead of achingly cold. Rodney found his blanket by feel and Sheppard the same way; it was almost unbearably crowded inside but he managed to bully his way to Sheppard's side and settle down against him again. Soon the air was silent, save for the occasional rustle of blankets and the quick puffs of air expelled by many small breaths.

Rodney could feel an undersized elbow nudging one of his legs, and another diminutive body pressed up against one foot, but he fought the claustrophobia it induced. It helped to tell himself that this wasn't a cave or hut made of anything solid – just a mound of lashed-together branches covered in packed snow. He could probably poke a fist right through the wall if he wanted. Not that he did.

He heard sounds outside as the Wraith shifted restlessly, standing guard like some sort of... of cuddly dog. It made him furious, for reasons he couldn't quite put into words but felt somewhere deep in his soul. Dog, ha! It wasn't a dog, but wolf pretending to be one, or a man-eating lion pretending to be a fluffy kitten. And it had everyone fooled. Everyone but him.

Rodney didn't notice how close he was to Sheppard – the back of their heads were just touching – or how strangely the man was breathing, like someone in a trance. All he could think of was that Wraith, the damn Wraith that had caused all this mess. It had angered the _Gàst_ and made it take Sheppard; if it wasn't for the Wraith Sheppard would be whole and healthy. And if it hadn't insisted on stealing Sheppard they wouldn't currently be freezing themselves silly in the backside of winter running from some fairytale monster. And he only had its word that the _Gàst_ was a monster, or even a _Gàst_ at all. From what the children said, Ilu was human, and a human could be reasoned with.

And even if he wasn't, surely he couldn't be worse than a Wraith? It had probably made up all that shit about eating emotions and controlling Sheppard. More likely Sheppard was just... sick, broken by torture. He had been well fed and dressed in rich clothes when rescued – stolen. What sort of captor fed and clothed their prisoner so well?

_The same sort that wiped out a village for not paying a tithe of Wraith victims_, a small voice said, but logic assailed it. A rogue band, probably, or maybe even bandits who's looted uniforms from some unfortunate company. It was a second-hand account from frightened children, and they knew for sure there were bandits in the area. Yes, yes...

Maybe he could get rid of it somehow. Do what he'd thought of in the village and wait for a patrol – or go and find one for himself. Or just pick up a rock and make a repeat performance with the bandit. Rodney grinned at the thought of cracking the Wraith's skull as he had the other, unthinking of the possibilities of getting himself killed in the process. With the Wraith gone everyone would be so much... simpler. It was a good thought to sleep on.

Rodney closed his eyes, and dreamed of blood.

o.O.o

It was midnight when the blizzard struck.

o.O.o

Ka had smelt the storm coming, but done nothing. He placated his fears by reminding himself that he was used to low temperatures, that he had fed recently and could regenerate quickly, that he could always go inside if he needed to. Even when the first wave of hail sleeted down he didn't move except to crouch down in the snow like a cat in a basket to wait out the squall.

The squall became a gale and the gale a tempest, but still he did nothing. The world turned white around him; his breath froze in frosted clouds and ice started to form in his beard, but he waited it out. He didn't feel cold at all, quite the contrary in fact. It was pleasantly warm, as though back in the hives working on the hyperdrive engines as he had when things had been newer and his youth still stretching away ahead of him like a 'gate to the future. Even the slight chill in the air was gone.

He was dimly aware his blood was freezing into icicles, but he didn't care. He was warm and tired and he could sleep. He could sleep forever.

Ka's eyes closed briefly, opened, then closed again. The dark welcomed him as it always had, singing of rest and forgiveness in the long night. He didn't feel the snow under him as he lay down, or the snow covering him in a steady mantle as he dreamed.

The last thing he felt was curious, but not unpleasant. It felt almost like fingers – bony fingers stroking his temple gently.

It was soothing...


	10. Cold Journeys: Chapter 4

I was gonna hold you in suspence a little longer but... I decided to be nice. I'm really a very nice person. Really.

Really.

* * *

The storm had blown out by morning; the humans inside the igloo slept later than normal without being woken as they usually were. When they emerged from the den, blinking and sleepy, it was to a world almost entirely monochrome in stark blacks and whites. White snow, black tree trunks, brilliantly white sun, dull grey sky. The only colour came from their clothing – browns, greens, and russet-red.

The drifts were deep, coming up to Rodney's waist and all but burying the children. All but Meera stayed inside the snow den, which had become twice as thick in the night, almost like a giant white beehive. The girl struggled along gamely beside him, up to her armpits in frozen water.

Rodney looked around. The ground was utterly flat and undisturbed; even the woven windbreak had apparently been blown away by the gale. Aside from themselves, there was no-one living nearby.

Wraith included.

"Where is he?" Meera whispered. Rodney didn't have to ask who she was referring to. Nor did he have to think about the answer.

"Probably feeding on someone," he said readily, despite the lack of tracks in the fresh snow. After all, it was possible the Wraith had left during the storm and simply hadn't returned yet. Rodney wasn't about to waste time worrying about him. "Come on, I'll clear some space if you start gathering wood. We can't go anywhere until he gets back anyway."

_Gathering_ was more like _digging_, since their stack of firewood from last night was now blanketed in white. Meera hesitated, then nodded and started burrowing in the drifts, while Rodney started kicking a hollow in the snow and scooping it up with his hands. After a minute the kids still inside the igloo saw what he was trying to do, and ran (well, burrowed) out to help him.

Rodney carried on a while longer, then stopped as the clearing reached a diameter of twelve feet and tucked his numb hands into his armpits while the children finished off. The wild dreams of last night had faded into crimson-tinged memory, but he still found himself hoping that perhaps the Wraith might have gotten lost in the night and wouldn't return for a while – not until a patrol found them perhaps.

He shook himself, berating his mind. They needed to Wraith to get to Atlantis, and if the patrols _did_ catch up with them there was no guarantee they would survive the encounter. The children's village certainly hadn't.

But if they did...

"Soh-Rodney!"

The sound of him name jerked him out of daydreams and made his head turn. Niack was near the edge of the clearing they had made, staring in horror at the ground. Rodney crunched across the dead grass, then stared himself.

_Like a dream_, he thought absently, _or an episode from CSI. _

Niack had found a foot.

o.O.o

_Calm without, chaos within._

We're taking damage!

_("Just got a message from command. Medevac needed outside __Khabour__.")_

_Determination. _Keep firing. Destroy the enemy at all costs.

The hull has been breeched...

_Fear._ Pull back! Jump to hyperspace!

_("That's a dangerous area, Dex.")_

_A voice filled with defiance and rage _we will succeed_, then pain and emptiness that blasted away his soul, his world..._

_("No sweat, Sheppard. Remember to buy us a beer when we get back.")_

o.O.o

The foot was still attached to its owner, for which Rodney was thankful; he didn't like the Wraith any more than before this insane venture but he'd seen enough gory stuff in the last week or so. The body was entirely whole as they dug it out but that was all it was: a body.

The Wraith was dead.

"No," whispered Niack as Zaiq hurried forward with his patch work bag. "We needed him. We _need_ him. He was gonna take us to a good place..."

"It was going to stun you and run off with Sheppard to some godforsaken hive," Rodney said wearily. Niack didn't listen. "How about being grateful _it's_ dead and not you?"

"He's not dead!" Niack wailed as Zaiq solemnly lifted one cold wrist to find a pulse. "He _can't_ be dead, he's an Overlord, they don't _die_!"

Rodney lost what little patience he'd had. "Have you _looked_ at it you little brat? Do you think that's how a _live_ alien looks? For fucks sake, there are _rocks_ out there that are warmer than it is! It's _dead_, now get_ over _it!"

Niack flinched under the barrage, but Rodney was too angry to care. He was sick of this, sick to death of it. The fucking Wraith was stiff as a board, curled up like a frozen grub and not breathing, and they _still_ wanted it to look after them. He could just, just take Sheppard and _leave_ them with the fucking thing if they wanted it that badly, leave them with that cold, stiff body until they became cold and stiff themselves...

"He's a he," Niack muttered, his eyes swollen and red.

"What?"

"He's a he. Not an it."

o.O.o

Father!

_His rage could level mountains, could destroy entire hives, but his body was so very weak and the bars so very strong. Strong and unyielding; they rattled as he hurled himself against them, but they did not bend. _

_("__I'm gonna get you out of here, Captain. Don't worry.__")_

_A stab of pain over his abdomen erupted, not his own. _Father!

_He will kill them. He will grind their bones to dust and scatter them among the stars. He will–_

_("__Sheppard ... whatever happens, thanks for coming for me.__")_

_Quoh screamed, and he echoed the pain of his son with a howl of rage. _

_(Holland choked to death on his own blood.)_

o.O.o

Rodney didn't say anything. He wasn't sure he could. Anger was giving way to tiredness, and tiredness to worry, because he didn't believe any more that he would make it out of an encounter with soldiers alive. He was an accessory to the, the theft or rescue or whatever it had been, justified or not. Lords weren't generally forgiving types.

He couldn't carry Sheppard, he couldn't fight off bandits and even if he made it to the 'gate he didn't know the point of origin to dial out from.

And for some reason, all he could think of were cockroaches.

"Soh-Rodney?" It was Meera, who was pale but steady. "Should we bury him?"

Rodney shook his head. "How? With no shovels and the ground so hard? Just leave him, we can, we can cover him with snow again until we move." Cockroaches, why cockroaches? And popcorn? What sort of...

Beer. Videos. Video night, the one that had to be... months ago by now. It had been after that weird crystal creature from M3X-387 tried to kill them all with Sheppard (and a whale, couldn't forget the whale). They had been watching some stupid sci fi movie – _Men in Black_, that was it, then Sheppard had made a throwaway comment about bug-aliens and he'd told him to shut up and Sheppard had defended his analogy of cockroaches and Wraith with a few interesting (if disgusting) facts. Like how they could survive nuclear winters and a month without water and up to two days frozen...

Frozen as in... Cold. Cold making blood run slower. Hibernation.

For the briefest of moments he hesitated, then he said "Wait."

o.O.o

_In the forest it was spring. _

_("You disobeyed a direct order.")_

_Kyu was dead. _

_("You stole the property of the US Army in order to undertake a fruitless mission.")_

_It was spring and Kyu was dead. _

_("By all rights this should be a dishonourable discharge, Major.")_

_Kyu was dead. _

_("As it is, you are being transferred. And I, personally, hope to never set eyes on you again.")_

_Everything had gone wrong. _

_(He saluted and left. He didn't feel like fighting anymore.)_

o.O.o

The fire burnt brightly, but it still wasn't enough.

"All of the wood," Rodney urged, ignoring the anxious looks being shot his way and the nagging worry that he might be wrong, might be burning up all their fuel for nothing. The Wraith was as close to the fire as they dared put him, but he hadn't so much as twitched yet.

He refused to consider what he was trying to think, just as he refused to consider that a Wraith might die of something as stupid as hypothermia. Not now he _knew_.

Dav dumped more sticks on, then Niack a whole log, looking up with ashes streaking his face like war paint. "That's all."

That was all, and it wasn't as though they could look for more, not in those drifts. Rodney didn't show his worry, but nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging way. "Good. That's... good. All we have to do now is wait."

The flames ate the wood, crinkled dry leaves, and leapt higher. Warmth washed over them in blissful waves, ebbing and flowing with the roar of the fire, dyeing the snow the colour of blood. Sheppard was nearby as well, though not as close, and the heat was making him stir slightly. Rodney prayed he wouldn't wake up, not caring that he was being hypocritical – if this worked he might even seriously consider going to church again sometime in his life. Maybe.

Sheppard yawned. The Wraith shuddered.

o.O.o

"_It hurts, doesn't it?"_

_("John, John Sheppard, my name is John Sheppard, John Sheppard, John Sheppard...")_

"_Such a terrible waste."_

_("Just take my hand, John.") _

"_You know how to stop the pain."_

_("Do you want me to leave?")_

_He watched the _Gàst_ smile, and hold out its hand._

_("... No.")_

He opened his eyes to fire

(watched as the flames twisted higher)

spitting sparks towards a sky the colour of a dull knife blade, the fragments like

(fireworks on the 4th)

darts spinning from a hiveship of red-gold,

(eating ice-cream)

brief but so warm,

("Look Dave, a rocket!")

like life. But not

("Can we get sparklers?")

his. His?

He blinked.

("Who are you, young man?")

Who was he?

("Where are your parents?")

They were

("Just along that way, ma'am.")

dead.

("Near the big bonfire.")

He was.

("Well, you'd better go back to them. It's dangerous for children alone.")

alone.

"Wraith?"

(the bitch was _feeding_ on him!)

"Rodney?" The name was wrong somehow, but he couldn't think of another when he had such an important other question on his mind. "Which

(meditation with Teer)

one

("I _hate_ clowns.")

am I?"

"What do you mean?" The man _MeredithRodneyDoctorMcKay_ looked puzzled, and afraid. He tried to smile

(at Elizabeth)

reassuringly but

(Kolya smiled at him)

with teeth that were wrong. What? "What has happened to me?"

"You, you were hibernating. I think. Because of the cold. We brought you back" The man tried to look pleased, but failed miserably. It hurt. Wasn't Rodney...? McKay...? They were

(buddies)(partners)(team mates)(working on the code together)

supposed to be helping each other and

(Rodney?)

his head hurt. "Please... I am...

(John Sheppard)(Ka Túru)

... I don't know. Which one am I?"

"Which one of what?" This was wrong, wrong, wrong. He couldn't think, he couldn't...

(recognize)(feed)(it was feeding on him oh God it hurt)(its life was so sweet)

He saw the man by the fire, stirring in its warmth, and he knew it from working together and he knew it by looking in the mirror each day. He could remember feeding, feeling life flow up his arm like the power behind the dance of stars, and he could remember the awful pain of his life being torn from his chest by a bloody hand.

He looked up, looked down, and saw himself each time.

The man by the fire opened his

(my)

eyes. And smiled. The blue-eyed man he settled on calling Rodney McKay jumped and watched the man in terror, but he couldn't look away. There was something compelling about seeing your own face, even when it _wasn't_ your own face and...

The smile widened

(like a clown's)

and the man spoke softly. "Feeling confused?"

He stared, but nodded. The voice didn't fit somehow, but it was kind and... soothing. Like

(watching as the flames twisted higher)(bony fingers stroking his temple gently)

being home

(Atlantis)(Hive)

again. Rodney McKay's eyes were swallowing his face, his skin shivering in tight waves, but he was frozen in place by the other man's gaze. As was he.

He put a name to the face. "John Sheppard."

(me)

The other chuckled. "As always, you look without seeing. Pitiful. Truly surprising that you have survived so long."

No. He _remembered_, and felt his old strength return in rage. "_Gàst_. Leave his mind."

The grin stretched wider, splitting dry lips so the blood ran in obscene streams. Rodney McKay shouted "Stop it!" as it said "_Make me._"

He rose at the words and let the anger fuel his strength, hotter than the fire, reaching out towards the possessed man to rip, to tear, to free

(himself)(his brother)

from the leech controlling him, to destroy the parasite that hunted on their trail. As he drew nearer the man tilted his head up and whispered something.

"M3R-433."

His fingers touched pale skin, and his world fell away for the second time.

o.O.o

Rodney dragged the Wraith away from Sheppard, placing two trembling fingers on the man's jugular. He didn't understand what had just happened – didn't _want_ to – but he had understood enough to know that his friend was being controlled by something. By the_ Gàst_.

Sheppard looked white, almost ghastly in the unforgiving light of day. Inside the igloo the children were sleeping; he had made them go inside when it was clear the Wraith had woken confused, not wanting accidents to occur. He almost wished he hadn't – he would have welcomed a little help with it when it woke, and certainly when Sheppard had woken up not Sheppard and started taunting it. He had thought it was going to kill him, but as soon as it had touched him the Wraith had spasmed and fallen again and Sheppard had flopped back down like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Blood was dripping down Sheppard's chin from the cracks in his lips. Rodney wiped them away with mild disgust and his sleeve. One way the, the _thing_ had shot itself in the foot was by hurting Sheppard without apparently caring, as though using a set of disposable gloves to do a vaguely unpleasant job. The cracks gleamed wetly, like raw meat. He dabbed them with melted snow and called into the igloo for whatshisname, the little darker-skinned boy. Apparently the kid knew something about home remedies, and while before this insane venture Rodney would've sawed off his own leg rather use voodoo it was worth a go.

The kid – Zaiq, wasn't it? – scurried out looking worried and more than a little scared. Well duh, they must have seen what happened out here, and probably didn't understand any more than he did. Rodney pointed out the injuries and let the kid work, then glanced back at the unconsciousness Wraith with a frown.

_Which one am I?_

What the hell had it meant?

o.O.o

_In a sleep-pod so far in the past the years are numberless, a small hand crept into his own, and childish voice whispered near his ear. _

"_Promise you will not ever scare me like that again."_

_("The Gift of Life is reserved for out most devout worshippers...")_

_He wrapped his fingers around Kyu's hand and whispered back. _

_("... and our brothers.")_

"_I promise."_

o.O.o

When Ka opened his eyes again the light was gone and the fire was dimmer, but his mind was neither. He knew he was _Ka_, whose true name – the short version – was Túru, which meant Seeker, and the man watching him like a rodent watching a raptor bird was Doctor McKay and the children were human and he was _not_, never had been human.

But a faint echo remained. He also knew his name was John Sheppard, and the man watching him was Rodney and the children were as human as he was, and he had always been human, bar one incident involving lots of blue scales and a mutated Wraith female. The knowing was flawed, unsure, but it was remarkably persistent.

One thing both personalities agreed on was that he had the queen of all headaches.

Doctor McKay looked at him askance. "Are you sane yet, or should I call back later?"

Ka chuckled weakly, feeling as though someone had nailed a lead strip over his eyes. "There are some who might have disputed my sanity before this, Doctor McKay."

They certainly would now. He was still almost convinced he had grown up in a place called America on a planet he had never set foot on with a brother he had never met. It was something he was trying to forget, especially the memories from Afghanistan. It made him feel... not unclean, but tainted in a way, as though he had stolen these secrets instead of being bombarded with them. Privacy was valued highly among Wraith, but now thanks to... to whatever had happened Sheppard had no more privacy from him because he _knew_ things. Things like fireworks on the 4th of July and Ferris Wheels and flying 'copters and Mitch and Dex, who shared his first name with the last one of the Satedan.

Ka wondered what Sheppard would remember when he woke. Would his brother be David Sheppard or Kyu and the rest of the crèche? Would his war have been fought in Afghanistan or the Pegasus Galaxy?

"Well if you do things like this often I'm not surprised." Ka looked over to the fire, where Sheppard as sleeping and McKay followed his eyes. "He's asleep again. That... that thing... it wasn't him speaking, was it?"

"No. The _Gàst_ is more powerful than I thought." Ka rose to a seated position and propped himself on his palms, before sitting more comfortably on his knees in a meditative position. "Or closer."

"Great. Comforting thought. You've been asleep most of the day," McKay added, indicating the setting sun. Ka's heart sank, because it knew that they could not afford to lose a day. They could barely afford to lose an _hour_. "I wasn't about to carry you, and the snow's too deep to walk in."

"I know. You did what you had to." McKay looked surprised at this almost-praise, but Ka was too tired and in pain to started verbally sparring with the man again. Perhaps tomorrow, if they ever lived to see the dawn.

They might not. If the _Gàst_ was close enough to make Sheppard speak instead of merely manipulating his thoughts then there was a good chance they might all die in the night. Or worse. He glanced towards the snow den and listened to the even breaths inside. "The..." he thought _cubs_ and _children_ in the same moment, and settled for "others. Are they well?"

McKay almost smiled. "Worn out. We had to, had to go out and dig around for firewood while you were... sleeping. It wasn't just hibernation, was it?"

"No." No, it wasn't, although it partly was. The cold had dulled his mind, let in the _Gàst_, and it had done its best to see him killed or preferably incapacitated until its arrival, confusing him by tangling his mind with Sheppard's while his blood froze in his veins. It had controlled him almost as thoroughly as it did Sheppard. The thought frightened Ka as nothing else had in years – not since his son Quoh had screamed under the scalpels and bone-saws of the Genii scientists

It had been a harsh captivity. Quoh had survived the vivisections undertaken while he was still awake and fully aware – there wasn't a sedative existing that could knock out a Wraith. Ka had shared his pain and been there as much as he was able, feeling the blades slice open his own stomach, his own chest being cracked open. But it hadn't been on the bloody tables of the Genii that his son had died, but in their ill-conceived escape attempt.

For that Ka had _not_ been there. He had simply been stunned, and woken up alone. For a while he had deceived himself into believing his son had simply been moved, but eventually he had accepted Quoh had died, and died alone. There had been... conclusive evidence that the Genii had delighted in showing him.

Was it any wonder he had not wanted to escape at first with Sheppard? The man was so like Quoh, and Quoh had been the very image of Kyu. Both were dead thanks partly to him. He hadn't wanted to cause the death of Sheppard as well, human or not. If he was honest, he still didn't, although that wouldn't stop him if he had to. Likeness of spirit or not, Sheppard was still a very real threat.

It had been disturbing to learn that the person he had escaped with and called 'brother' was a Lantean, and that the Lanteans were the single greatest threat to his species existence in the galaxy. It had been even worse to find out that _John Sheppard_ was a name being used to frighten an entire generation of hatchlings into good behaviour. His queen had been... unimpressed... when she heard the name of the human he had escaped with. He could no longer boast ignorance on the pains of being fed on.

He wondered if Sheppard knew all this, and the significance of his name.

"I don't suppose you want to talk about it?" Ka just looked at him. "Er, no, no. Guessed not. I don't suppose you feel like sleeping either."

"No. I will stay out here." He didn't like risk being of outside again – there was too much of a chance that the cold would drop low enough for the _Gàst_ to enter his mind – but he had a greater dislike of enclosed spaces since his captivity. It had made his return to his hive unpleasant and his stay in Atlantis even more so.

Ka could remember what he had felt when the bars of the Lantean cage slid shut behind him. It had been as though the past year was a dream – the escape with Sheppard, the journey to his hive, winning back leadership. And after all that he opened his eyes again to stone walls and a starless roof, staring at metal bars guarded by humans. It had seemed so unreal he hadn't even panicked or grow angry.

He glanced down at Sheppard. One thing about cells was you never really left them.

"Okay, sure." McKay dithered, then rose. Ka did likewise, walking over to Sheppard and picking him up with the ease born of familiarity, although not the contempt. A little less luck, or a little more time, and he might well have ended up in the same position. He deposited the man gently inside the den, hovering beside him as McKay entered as well and hesitated.

Good. His caution might help him live longer, and more importantly Sheppard. Ka deliberately ignored the human, looking away as McKay grabbed his blanket and settled beside Sheppard jerkily, his eyes constantly darting up to the looming Wraith. Ka didn't move, and so he lay down eventually, if not without anxiety. The children slept on undisturbed.

"I will stay awake a while," he said, and McKay nodded sleepily, before closing his eyes. Soon the familiar sound of snoring stirred flakes of snow from the ceiling. Ka watched him sleep a while, then went outside where he could feel the wind and see the sky.

.He stared into the darkness and thought.

As he was Túru, the Seeker, so Kyu had had a true name as well. _Vakka_, the Guardian, and Ka had not been surprised at all when he learnt the name after their first adult hunts – Kyu had forever been protecting his crèche-brothers from danger. It might be nothing more than a bitter memory if not for Ka's new knowledge, learnt from a fading memory of a long-ago conversation he had never heard, but Sheppard _had_.

Sheppard, the name that meant the sheep-herder, the man who watched over the flock and drove away predators. Sheppard, the protector, the one who stood guard.

The Guardian...

o.O.o

The forest had gone away, or perhaps had simply drawn back; he could see it still on the horizon and had no wish to walk towards it again. The desert might have been barren and frightening, but there were no Wraith in it or sad, snarling bodies withered and dry.

John's chest hurt. There was no blood on it and no scarring or wound, not even a bruise, but it hurt. He didn't understand why, because as far as he could tell he hadn't aged at all and he felt no weaker than normal. Yes he was weak, weak as Dad said he was, as _they_ had thought he was, but his limbs didn't shake and his skin was unwrinkled. So not so weak.

He remembered the first time he had been called weak, been called stupid. It had been after the girl on the bus.

John shivered.

He'd... been asleep. Maybe. Perhaps. He'd been asleep and had weird dreams, and they had to be dreams because he only had _one_ brother, not a ship full of them, and he was _human_, not a lying, murdering Wraith. Most of the memories had been burnt away by the sulphur-coloured sun, but he still caught occasional glimpses

(Quoh turning with a grin before the stunner threw him backwards)

of things he had never seen yet _had_. Thankfully almost gone now, and if only all his memories could just switch off like that. Just... float away.

Floating, flying. He missed flying. When you were higher than the clouds there was nothing to hurt you. It was the _ground_ that hurt; it fired the rockets and sent the soldiers, the hard-line generals, the Wraith. He wasn't meant for the dirty earth and the earth knew that, so it tried to wash his filth away.

Atlantis didn't count, because she was a ship really, a ship that floated on water and she _knew_. She knew about flying, about soaring above the clouds and to the stars, into the clean emptiness of space. He remembered flying with her, and remembered a single, golden moment of happiness as they shot from the planet's atmosphere into the safety of cold vacuum.

He missed Atlantis like he missed Ilu. Like he missed... _not_ knowing. Like he missed his family of traitors before such knowledge of their lies, when he could still kid himself that they cared. It had been unreal and mocking, but he had enjoyed it while it lasted.

John hugged his knees and stared at the jagged skyline.

He missed his team.

o.O.o

They hit a village around about noon. Rodney shouldn't have been surprised, since they were following the roads and roads inevitably led to settlements, but he was. He'd spent so many days trudging through deathly silent woods without seeing another single friendly adult soul (he didn't count the Wraith) that he'd almost forgotten such things existed.

They had to skirt it (thanks to said Wraith), but he sent Meera down with Dav since it was unlikely anyone was looking for them. As far as the_ Gàst_ or Lord Ilu – whatever it called itself – was concerned, they had died in their village. It probably didn't even know they existed, so it was safe for the two children to go and barter for fresh bread and meat and vegetables traded from other worlds where the arable land _wasn't_ buried under three feet of snow. Rodney also added blankets to their shopping list (not that either of them could read), because it never hurt to err on the side of caution.

They came back with the supplies and also with news that the place was crawling with soldiers. Soldiers who had thankfully neither noticed nor followed them, but it was enough to spook the Wraith, who was becoming progressively twitchier the further on they travelled, which in turn spooked Rodney because he wasn't used to nervous Wraith. It made him wonder what the hell it could be frightened of, and whether he should start worrying about it as well.

Stupid question. When wasn't there anything to worry about?

It set off again without a word, muttering about putting distance between them and the soldiers and not being able to protect them all. That struck a little close to the bone, because it wasn't as though he was _helpless_. He'd killed a man with a _rock_, even if he had nightmares about it each night, and he could defend Sheppard (and, yes, the children as well) just as well as it could.

"Why should you care anyway?" Rodney said defensively. "Not like a Wraith to get all touchy-feely over humans..."

It stared at him, eyes flat as a snake's.

"No," it said finally, its voice colder than the slopes of hell. "It is not."

o.O.o

They were journeying hard, and even Taira could feel the tension in the group. She might be little, maybe the littlest out of everyone (Tai said he was taller, and she thought maybe he was right), but she wasn't _dumb_. Everyone was all jumpy, even Ace. Especially Ace.

Tai liked Ace, but Taira liked Rodney more. He was funny, even if he did shout a lot, and he cringed away from them instead of just shoving them away like Ace did. Taira wasn't used to people being scared of _her_. It was novel enough to be interesting, and sort of nice.

Ace just reminded her of Old Ono, the bad-tempered, grizzled old canoid that had belonged to her grandpa. She had been scared of Ono, because he had big teeth and sometimes snapped at her if she annoyed him. She giggled. Like Ace did.

Only Ono had fallen down like Grandpa and Momma and Papa and Nalk when the soldiers came, with an arrow sticking out of his chest like a thorn but not. She'd called to him afterwards and even plucked up the nerve to stroke him, but he's just lain there and looked so sad she'd cried and cried until Meera led her away and gave her some orange _jiji_ fruit to calm her down. But Ace hadn't fallen down when he'd had an arrow in him.

She'd heard Meera tell Niack Ace was an Overlord but sort-of nice, but didn't much care. Taira had never seen an Overlord, only heard how bad they were, but then the soldiers had been bad as well and they were human. Rodney was human but he wasn't bad like the soldiers, so maybe Ace was like Rodney and not-bad in the same way because he did good things, like save the other offworlder who slept all the time, from Lord Ilu. Lord Ilu, who had sent the soldiers.

They were talking together now as they walked, and tired as she was Taira listened. They were discussing how to get through the 'gate that Niack had told them all about, and how much food they had and what something called the _Gàst_ might do. It was all very boring, so Taira stopped listening and started scooping up handfuls of snow as she walked to throw at Zaiq. It was fun throwing snowballs at Zaiq, because he didn't wail or tell like Tai did, just smiled and threw them back.

She liked Zaiq. She'd told Tai that she was going to marry him one day, but Tai had laughed and she had started crying. Then Zaiq had come over and Tai had tattled on her. She had cried even more then out of embarrassment, while Tai danced around her and shrieked triumphantly "Cry-baby, cry-baby! He'll never marry a cry-baby like you, _Tai-ra_!"

"I don't see why not," Zaiq had said calmly, giving her part of his seedcake. That had shut Tai up and he'd run off furiously through the village, shrieking at the top of his lungs "_ZAIQ likes TAI-RA, ZAIQ like TAI-RA!_"

"He bellows like a sick calf," Zaiq had observed with dryness much older than someone who was eight. Taira had giggled.

"Do you really want to marry me?"

Zaiq had grinned. "No," he had confessed. "I just said that to annoy Tai."

Normally that would have made her cry again, but she had only giggled and eaten the rest of the seedcake. After that she had shut up about marrying him, but she hadn't given up hope. They both had a long while to wait before they were old enough to, so who knew?

Eventually her hands turned numb and she had to stop, and it was getting dark and her legs hurt and Taira started sniffling slightly. She could hear Tai asking Ace if they could stop yet or not and Ace snapping back something impatient, which made her sniffle even more. She could hear Tai crying, and Rodney scolding, and Ace sigh before carrying on, even though she hurt all over and she wanted food.

Taira started to cry as well, then Zaiq started looking all wobbly and Rodney was shouting now. Ace was shouting back and she didn't want shouting, she just wanted to sit down or go back and be with Momma again, even if Momma was all cold and stiff now. She wanted Papa and Grandpa and Ono and Nalk.

She heard Ace say something angry then snarl and start building another snow den again. It didn't help as much as she thought it might have. Taira didn't want a stupid den, she wanted to go _home_.

More than anything else, she wanted to go home.

o.O.o

Dinner had been a frosty affair – ha, literally. The clouds had cleared from the sky, which now blazed a cold black, like a polished obsidian mirror poked through with hard white stars, and without their insulating cover the temperature had plummeted noticeably. So noticeably the Wraith had even helped him force three cups of hot soup down Sheppard, and was now standing beside him and looking at the sky with a thoughtful expression. Or maybe he'd just spotted a bird. Who cared?

Well, actually, Rodney might if he'd seen something flying, because then it might be a puddle jumper and they might all go home _right now_. But no, it stared and sighed and took Sheppard into the igloo, covering him with blankets while the children shuffled into sleeping positions like kittens in a basket. Perhaps a bad analogy, considering what people traditionally did with unwanted kittens, but it wasn't like the Wraith had a brick or a river handy.

When it came back outside it sat down as normal then said "We will reach the Stargate tomorrow."

_That_ almost made Rodney slip off the icy rock he had appropriated as a seat, if only because it was so... well, nice. It naturally made him suspicious, because Pegasus didn't do _nice_.

Not without something nasty following.

"How do you know?"

It gave him a look both old-fashioned and patronising. "I asked the cub Niack."

Right, right. Like he was going to trust some kid from a backwater world that'd only ever been through the 'gate once. "So, looking forward to seeing Atlantis again?" Because there was no way in hell he was spending time on a hiveship. No _way_.

"No," it said absently, looking into the fire. Understandable, but worrying. Maybe it didn't plan on going back at all.

"No you're not going back, or no you're not looking forward to it?" Rodney just had to know. Not that he was willing to bet anything on the answer – hello, Wraith. Not exactly a species you'd lend money to, if they even _had_ money, which was unlikely.

"Which would you prefer?" it asked sarcastically.

_Take a wild guess. _"I'm not even going to answer that."

It snorted. Rodney was starting to regret what he'd promised after it had technically (well, okay, _had_) saved Jeannie's life, that they weren't going to kill it, that they would let it go if it proved trustworthy. He found himself entertaining thoughts of Ronon and his wonderful, wonderful Wraith-blasting gun. Maybe that was cruel or nasty, and maybe he was sinking to their level, but he didn't _care_ anymore. He was tired of trying to be nice to something that thought of him as he might think of a McDonald's meal with extra fries.

"The _Gàst_ will be there," it said suddenly. "By the 'gate. Waiting for us." It sounded as though that might be preying on its mind a little.

"You know, you never did explain why it's after you."

"I have no reason to tell you that," it said, still not looking at him.

"Yes, actually, I think you do," Rodney snapped because _honestly_. How bad could it be? "I've being chased across a ridiculous amount of this godforsaken planet by that thing, I almost got frozen in a blizzard, and my... my _friend_ tried to kill me. And apparently this has all happened because of _you_." It flinched, had he imagined it flinching? No, Rodney didn't think he had. "So I want to know _why_."

It studied the fire, the end of its boots and its hand with great interest, then looked at him sideways. Not in the eye, though, and if Rodney hadn't known any better he would have said it looked ashamed.

"It was... a long time ago."

"Does that matter?"

It blinked, then looked away. "No."

For a while it said nothing more, and Rodney began to think it was going to zip up and keep quiet on whatever earth-shattering secret it held. Then it spoke, but it spoke to the fire that was dyeing its face a bloody crimson.

"I told you, Doctor McKay, that the _Gàst _fed on emotion and was part of the tales I heard as a hatchling."

"Yes?" prompted Rodney when it fell silent again. It hissed slightly, then continued.

"In the... tales we told, the tales passed down to us, it hunted through stealth. It has a... power similar to ours, to make beings see what is not there. It uses this and its telepathy to disguise itself, even under close scrutiny, to make it appear as... someone close to the watcher, or something unthreatening. Humans and our hatchlings are more vulnerable to it; as adults, my kind would naturally not fall prey to one of their own tactics unless..." It hesitated. "Unless they were... distracted."

Huh. And he'd always though the Wraith unimaginative. "Distracted like how?"

It definitely wasn't meeting his gaze. "Various means. Usually extreme hunger, anger, or fear. It prefers... it prefers my kind for feeding, especially adults, but almost never catches them for the reasons I have stated. Our emotions are... different from yours, more pleasing to it. Especially when we are grown."

"Why?"

It cast around its feet, then picked up a stone. "Imagine I throw this into a pool of water. It will create ripples, but within minutes the pool is still again. That is _human_ emotion; you lead such short lives that your feelings are as fleeting as your heartbeats. We do not let our emotions rule us, Doctor McKay, but when they grow beyond our control they are felt very deeply – as a sea might rage in a storm, rather than a stone might cast ripples in a pool. The weight of our years is as the water, and adds strength to what we feel."

It dropped the stone. "When the _Gàst_ finds one of my kind under the control of fear or rage, it will feed much more deeply than it would from a human feeling the same. Or, to carry on the comparison – it would drink more deeply of a sea than a puddle."

"And it... found you?" Fear or rage. What a wonderful choice. No wonder it didn't want to discuss this. Rodney had a very definite feeling about how unpleasant this was going to be.

"Yes. I also told you I knew something of _lўf'géfa_." The Wraith shifted. "That is because I had one, long ago. He... died. Was killed. I..." It trailed off and said nothing for a long while.

It didn't have to. Fear or rage, Rodney thought. Or maybe fear _and_ rage. He wondered how he would feel if Sheppard had been killed, and shuddered. Not that he believed weird Wraith stuff like that but still...

The Wraith appeared to pull itself together. "After... afterwards I came here. I was still... dwelling on my _lўf'géfa's _death. The_ Gàst_ was drawn to me through what I was feeling. It wanted to feed. I saw it and... It looked like my _lўf'géfa_. I knew it was a lie, but I no longer cared. I only wanted to find an ending." Frost crunched under its feet as it moved. "I was fortunate that my _lўf'géfa_ was not my only brother. Another came looking for me in time to stop me from entering the woods. If he had not, I would be as Sheppard is now."

"So that's it?" Rodney said as it shut its mouth and said no more. "It hates you because your brother stopped it feeding on you? But that was _his_ fault!"

"My brothers are dead," it told him. "The last died when my ship was destroyed over your city. Who else has it to blame? And it does not like to lose prey, any more than my kind does. That I was rescued matters little to it – that I _left_ matters above all else."

Rodney said nothing. Well, what could he say? Its brother had died, and the _Gàst_ had appeared like some supernatural vulture to scavenge on what was left behind. He remembered what he had said to it when Jeannie had been dying, asking if it had brothers or sisters, and wondered why the hell he was still alive.

"You mentioned a son."

"He was killed," it said sharply. "By the Genii. The _Gàst_ knows nothing of him."

God. _God_. He'd thought _his_ family life was screwed up. "Sorry."

"You did not kill him." Luckily for him, because Rodney knew with utter certainty he would not still be alive if he had – nanite code or no nanite code. Even right now it looked as though it wanted to tear his head off and eat it with toast, although to be fair all Wraith looked like that to him. "He was... young. Brave. And reckless." It almost smiled. "Much like Sheppard. They are both creatures of _yrre_."

"Er..."

"A type of stubbornness my kind values," it explained. "Refusal to admit defeat in the face of pain or death. Or both. I had thought it peculiar to us but Sheppard... ah, you know him better than I."

Yes. Yes, he did. "_Peculiar_ is the right word."

It chuckled softly. "A human who possesses _yrre_ and allies with a Wraith in the face of certain death, never losing his belief that his brothers will come for him? Peculiar indeed. It is unfortunate he was born human; if he was Wraith I suspect his status among my kind would rival my own."

"Um." _O-Kay..._ "That good?"

"I can give no higher praise to any. Wraith or human."

Rodney couldn't think of any reasonable reply, so he uncharacteristically said nothing. There were stirring sounds from the igloo, and he wondered if one of the kids was having nightmares. Maybe he'd better check...

There were more stirring sounds inside the igloo, and frightened whimpers. One of the kids having a nightmare? Sobbing followed. Maybe he should go back inside and–

A scream erupted and _oh hell_ that was _not_ one of the children.

Sheppard was awake again.

o.O.o

It made no sense. He'd been in the desert, watching the forest to make sure it didn't try to sneak up on him, but then suddenly it had gone, the _desert_ had gone, and he was lying in a white room full of children and it was _freezing_ and he couldn't move his _arms_ and so he screamed. He screamed and sobbed and tried to get free, to run, because running was all he had left.

_There was a man coming inside..._

John flailed inside the constricting blankets, fighting his way out and scooting backwards to strike hard snow. The children scattered like rabbits, but the man kept on coming closer and _no no no_ where was Ilu? Where was his safety, had it gone again, driven away by _this man_, who he now recognised as one of the dirty little traitors, the ones who had left him to the dark and pain of the dungeons.

A single thought struck John like a thunderbolt. _He's come to take me back._

The thought sent him shivering and sobbing again, cringing away as far as he could. The other man _RodneyMckay_ made grimacing faces and reached out a hand, but John wasn't fool enough to let him _touch_. Touching was _bad_.

Now there was something behind him, _Wraith_, same as before, come to stun him and feed again. Or maybe take up where Doc and Grumpy had left off. _No no no. _

"Sheppard?" The man sounded sick. "Sheppard it's, it's okay..."

_Liar_. Oh such a liar. How could things be okay with a Wraith and a traitor here, with Ilu far away? He hid his head in his arms and curled up as tightly as possible, so the blows wouldn't hurt as much, and flinched when a hand touched his back, catching on the knobs of his spine. It drew back at once but it would be back. Oh, it would be back. Like the looks in the little girl's eyes when she sat by him, it would never go away.

"Sheppard..." But he was crying, why was he crying? John didn't know, didn't care because they were crocodile tears anyway, they meant _nothing_. Unless the traitor had been in the dungeons, they meant _less_ than nothing. He didn't care.

_Be calm, John. _He wept a little with relief, because Ilu was here. Or not, but near enough to speak to him. _I will find you. Tomorrow I shall take you home. _

That was good, very good, but they were still here. Maybe they wouldn't hurt him much by tomorrow, but John wasn't sure how much pain he could take. So he drew his limbs tighter to him and prayed to Ilu that they would get bored soon.

Now the Wraith was talking and he was, he was... sleepy? It talked and talked and he felt sleepier and sleepier, and it was beckoning over one of the children. A child with a patch work bag, who took out a bottle and handed it over as a doctor might. Then it spoke to the man, who shouted and swore and made John scared, but took hold of him gingerly in the end and held him still._ No no no. _

The Wraith pried his jaws open, and he didn't fight because he wasn't _stupid_. It was stronger than he was and he had nowhere to run to, so he let it open his mouth and tip the contents of the bottle down his throat, crying as he did. It tasted of the way poppies smelt, and faintly of lavender, but mostly it just tasted of sleep.

John felt his limbs grow sluggish as the bottle was handed back empty, his vision growing dull as the man and Wraith argued about things he didn't understand. Something about _Gàst_ and _lўf'géfa_, whatever those were. He wanted to stay awake and find out, but Ilu came back to sooth him.

_Go to sleep, John. When you wake I will be near. _

With that promise in mind John let himself sleep with a smile on his face.

o.O.o

It was probably pointless to be angry at the Wraith, because really it had done what Rodney had been planning to do (well, if he'd known about the little brat's stash of sedatives disguised as herbal drinks he would've planned it), but he still was. It had forced him to manhandle Sheppard, frightening him even more, then dumped a load of strange liquids down Sheppard's throat without bothering to tell Rodney first and so he was angry. Very angry.

But not as angry as the Wraith.

All through his scolding it stared at Sheppard, and when Rodney finally ran out of breath it simply upped and left without a word spoken. Rodney was so surprised he almost forgot to follow it, and when he did he almost forgot to settle Sheppard down again comfortably.

He laid Sheppard down and pulled blankets over him, trying to ignore the awful smile on his face. It looked more a death grimace than anything else, which wasn't really helping Rodney's state of mind any. How the hell had Sheppard gone from crazy, Rodney-hating psychopath to the cowering, sobbing ball of misery he'd walked in to find fighting his way out of his blankets?

Rodney didn't know, but he would have bet money on the Ilu being involved. If he'd _had_ money.

It took a while to get the blankets all in place and a longer one to calm the children, who understandably weren't too keen on sharing living space with a madman. When he finally managed to go out the Wraith was standing statue-still in front of the fire, which had burnt to embers while the ruckus had been going on. Rodney stayed back a safe distance as he spoke.

"I, he's sleeping now."

"That was my intention," it said tersely. Well, duh.

"How long will that stuff last?"

"I do not know. I doubt it will keep him asleep more than a day." He didn't like the way its hands were clenching and unclenching, like it wanted to hit something or feed or maybe just do both at once. "I had not thought he would be... as he was."

"Yeah, me neither." Him _never_. Sheppard was _Sheppard_, a fighter to the bone. He didn't cry or cower.

"I had thought..." It paused; its feeding hand was spread wide, and it was breathing a little heavier than usual. Oh yeah, it was pissed. "I had thought to avoid the _Gàst_. Create a diversion. Lure it away, then double back as you dialled the address to Atlantis."

"Sounds like a plan." Especially since it would be the one taking the risks. Sounded like a _damn_ good plan.

"I had thought to do so," it growled. "Now... I have a new plan."

"Oh yeah?" Just as long as the one taking the risks stayed the same and they got off this rock, Rodney didn't much care. "What?"

It looked into the distance as though seeing the future, then turned to him.

"I am going to find the _Gàst_," it said slowly, deliberately. "And then, Doctor McKay, I am going to kill it."


	11. Cold Journeys: Chapter 5

As I write this my arms ache with rabies and tetanus injections, and my stomach wants to crawl out of my ears. I _hate_ having shots.

Another big thank you to everyone who has made my day reviewing this - those little email alerts made me forget the big red swelling bits on my arms for a moment :)

And now, to finish part two...

* * *

The forested hills and rocky crags of the north were uniform save in one place.

Between three hills a natural semi-basin had formed, with ridges of bare stone streaking outwards from it like colours in an iris and a stream trickling dirty water from a hidden spring. What trees there were in it had been uprooted, dragged around in a rough circle along the edge of the valley. The snow everywhere had been churned up to cold mud, with one swampy track that might have once been a road leading out of the basin and to the east.

In the precise centre was the Stargate. Along with what looked like half of the _Gàst's_ army.

Ka wriggled backwards and slunk away through the splintered trees. The dip he'd found, formed by some dried-up streambed, was sheltered enough to be a good hiding place and ran all the way to the basin edge. It was almost a valley in its own right, filled with trunks of broken trees, shattered in some unknown disaster made by nature or humankind. Perhaps even his own kind – it was possible a ship had landed here once to kill off the evergreens.

He didn't really care. Imminent death and all that.

Ka had managed to convince himself that he actually stood a small chance of getting out of this alive. After all, it was fairly simple; find the _Gàst_, kill it and its men, go back to Atlantis. He hadn't really given much thought to how many men it might have with it, or the fact he was armed with nothing more than a few daggers, a handful of human cubs and... He wasn't about to start counting Dr McKay. No.

He was starting to get the annoying feeling that he was going to die. Ka found he liked it no better now than any of the previous times.

The only difference was that, unlike the various rivals, more-cunning-than-average humans and hostile hives he'd always faced before (with the exception of the Genii), this was the only time the primary objective had been keeping him alive – possibly. If he was extraordinarily unlucky.

_Always the pessimist, brother. _He remembered Kyu laughing at him after a gloomy prediction, and smiled. How Sheppard had echoed him, chiding him for being negative! The smiled slipped away as he remembered Sheppard as he had last seen him, cowering from the touch of his _lўf'géfa_ like a scared rodent. The _Gàst_ had made him like that. And he stood here worrying how slow his death might be?

_M3R-433._

Ka felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He had much to worry about.

Exercise warmed him, and by the time he had reached the clearing hiding the humans he had almost forgotten. But the address haunted him as he walked among them.

For all he cheated death, there were worse things in the galaxy.

McKay rose to great him nervously; both hands were holding the dagger Ka had given him. It wasn't one of his best – a small dirk made of grey iron – but it was well-balanced and sharp, and probably didn't deserve to be held the way McKay was holding it. Ka sighed, but inwardly because he didn't feel like trying to teach McKay the intricate art of blade fighting. It was enough that the man knew which end to hold and which to stick in the enemy.

"Er, hey," McKay said a bit lamely. "Good scout?"

_Define good_, Ka thought, but said simply "I was not seen. However, there are more soldiers around the 'gate than I had hoped."

"Oh." Ka watched the man wilt. "Not good."

"No," Ka agreed, feeling his lips twitch slightly. McKay offered no further comment, but he had gone much paler than normal by the time Ka had picked up Sheppard and called the children to him. The dip he had been spying from would provide adequate cover for them when he lured the soldiers away and doubled back to kill the _Gàst_. Of course it was unlikely the creature would let all the soldiers leave it, but _if_ there were few enough he should be able to manage.

And if there were not?

Ka glanced sideways at the ashen-faced McKay. Then the human and his borrowed dagger would have to lend his negligible skills to the battle, along with his younger counterparts. Ka had no illusions as to what would happen next, but if it got him close enough to the _Gàst_...

And then what? Wake Sheppard to find a dead _lўf'géfa_ and slaughtered cubs scattered around him? It would be kinder to simply kill him, which was precisely what Ka intended to do if McKay should be killed. He had lived through the death of his own brother; even a human deserved better than what came after that.

As always, McKay felt the urge to talk while they journeyed. Ka did not stop him, aware that it was only his constant chatter that was stopping the man from panicking.

"Why are you doing this?"

The question actually surprised him. Just when you thought you knew humans... "I believe I have already told you, Dr McKay. I need you to help me finish the coding..."

"Yeah, yeah, and he's my 'brother' –" Ka could hear the quotation in the sentence "– etcetera and so forth. I'm not buying it. Painful as it is for me to admit, you could simply use Zelenka. While his genius isn't _quite_ at my level, he might be good enough. Just." McKay paused. "Don't tell him I said that, though. Anyway, I saw you when you were looking at Sheppard yesterday. You looked like... okay, _never_ mention this again, especially to the person in question, but you looked like Ronon would have. As in the I'm-going-to-kill-you-and-eat-your-roasted-heart-with-gravy sort of look."

"What precisely do you want me to say, Dr McKay?"

"The truth would be nice," McKay snapped. "Just... _why_. I saw you with Sheppard a few times after, after you came to Atlantis, and I was sure you didn't like him. I _know_ he didn't like you. So _why_?"

They walked on in silence for a while. "Dr McKay, you told me you had a sister when you took me to earth. You told me that the bonds between siblings meant a lot to your people."

"Back to the 'brother' thing, huh?"

"A mistake. He was not – is not – ready for those words. I suspect they frightened him."

"They frightened everyone," McKay muttered.

"I do not doubt that. But I would ask you, out of curiosity – among humans, do the bonds between siblings mean there are no disagreements, no fighting?"

"Ha! You should have seen Jeannie and me when we were kids... well, and, er, now..."

"Precisely."

McKay opened his mouth, then shut it and – wonder of all wonders – actually seemed to consider this. "Huh. That's... actually a good point. Wow."

"I am flattered," Ka said dryly. McKay made a face at him, but without rancour.

"Well don't let it get to your head. Zelenka's bad enough when praised. His ego becomes unbearable."

Apparently there was no word for 'hypocrite' in McKay's native tongue, Ka thought, but said instead "My own brother... He was much like my son. Much like Sheppard as well. Headstrong, brave, obstinate, wilful, infuriating and stubborn as rock. Yet he was still my brother."

"He might kill you," McKay said suddenly, then flushed as he apparently realised what he had come out with. "Um..."

"I know, Doctor McKay. Make no mistake; I respect your _lўf'géfa_ a great deal, more so than many of my own kind. I would rather fight alongside him than against him, but if I must I _will_ kill him. I have followers still, many of them of my blood, and their lives are in my trust as long as they are loyal to me. If their existence requires you or Sheppard die, then I will kill you, however much that might sadden me."

McKay eyeballed him sideways nervously, edging away slightly. They were nearing the dip, the trees around them becoming shattered and broken, the barks peeling from the few that still stood. It was a desolate-looking place, and the two youngest cubs started to whimper fearfully at the sight of it. Even McKay looked a little anxious, but then it appeared to be his default state of being.

"So we, we just hide here?"

"Yes. If I need assistance I will return here after I lead the soldiers away to ask for it. Otherwise, remain hidden. Protect Sheppard. On no account approach or even look at the _Gàst_. It is likely it will know you are here, but will be distracted by me long enough for you to escape more direct notice."

"No no, don't go all cheerful on us now." Ka looked at him blankly. McKay sighed. "Fine, right, I heard you. Alright munchkins, let's go hide from the scary monsters!"

Ka watched the scientist bully the cubs into the thick, dried-out brush gathered near the edges of where the beach of the stream had been, dwelling on what McKay had said. Monsters! It had always surprised him, when he had bothered to find out, how humans managed to fill already fearful lives with new terrors, irrational worries. Made-up monsters, imagined horrors, darkness created out of shadows and words when they had so many _real_ things to be afraid of. Accidents. Famine. Disease. Wild animals. Each other.

The Wraith.

The_ Gàst_. Look at them now, hiding from it like scurrying rodents, and from members of their own kind who served it. Most of them had been orphaned by members of their own kind as well, or further threatened by them. Why did humans feel the need to_ invent _monsters?

Ka deposited Sheppard gently in a ring of bushes as he pondered this, stamping down the snow first so it wouldn't soak through the blankets and chill the human. He had not endured a handful of cubs and McKay to have Sheppard catch a cold and die from rotted lungs.

McKay came over from where the children were hiding. Ka did not need to ask if he would be staying beside Sheppard, any more than he would have had to ask the sun if it would rise that dawn. Some things were simply a given. "He's, uh, he's still asleep, right?"

"Yes. I suspect he will remain so until this afternoon." He had no way of really knowing, but he needed the human relatively calm for this. McKay nodded and fidgeted slightly, before blurting out "Was M3R-433 where your brother died?"

Ka looked at him in utter astonishment, and not a little anger. "Where did you hear that address?"

"Sheppard – well, the _Gàst_ – it said it before you touched it, after you... after the blizzard."

Well yes, it had, but he had thought McKay was out of earshot. "No, he did not die there."

"Oh." McKay looked uncomfortable, then asked "Um, the Genii...?"

"No," snapped Ka, becoming irritated. "It was long before then."

"Oh," McKay said again, looking even more uncomfortable. Ka saw him open his mouth again, and cut him off.

"It was nothing, Dr McKay. Only a threat." A particularly vile one as well. M3R-433 had preyed on his mind a lot after he had walked it, even though it had been none of his blood that died there. Thankfully, McKay seemed to take the hint and shut up. "Wait here with Sheppard. Keep out of sight. It is possible that not enough soldiers will leave the _Gàst_ when I lead them away. If that is so, I will need to lead the remainder – and possibly the _Gàst_ as well – here, for you to aid me in killing them. However, what I said earlier still holds. On no account approach it, or look at its eyes. Concentrate on the soldiers."

"Oh, uh..." McKay was ashen again, but he nodded anyway. "Right. Okay. I'll tell the, the others."

"Make sure they know," Ka ordered him, then left before the human could ask any further questions. With any luck they would not need to fight at all, but oddly enough his luck had been somewhat fickle lately. It never hurt to be sure.

Dry sticks cracked under his boots as he walked down the dried streambed, pebbles crunching together with dry scrapes. Surety was a luxury he'd had very little of in recent times. Not that he was displeased with that. His imprisonment by the Genii had been filled with sureties – hunger, loneliness, boredom. He wasn't about to object to a little chaos after that.

Some things, though... he had been sure that when he returned to his hive he would be, if not welcome, then at least _home_. To the place he belonged. But when he had returned he had not returned to a home-place, to where he could belong. How could he? He was weakened, unsure of himself, tormented by doubt. He couldn't stand being in an enclosed space for long and grew panicky when he was forced to be. He craved fellowship after being alone for so long, yet when others were around him he craved isolation. And his sleep was plagued with nightmares, nightmares of being buried alive far from the open sky, bad dreams that had distressed most of the hive before they could be rectified.

No-one had wanted him there. He had been gone for over a decade – the galaxy had moved on. His imposed alliance had crumbled, his leadership taken over by others. He had been presumed dead along with Quoh. No-one had wanted a dead Wraith back among them. And they despised him for his weakness, for allowing himself to be caught alive, for daring to return and remind them of their failure to rescue him.

How often had he stood in that cell and dreamed of going home? Yet it had died as he did by slow inches. All he had returned to was a ship.

Ka slid down a crumbling bank, keeping behind the tree line as he ghosted towards the ring of soldiers. It would be the same for Sheppard, he knew. He would be alone, scared, tortured with bad dreams. And, like Ka, he would have to face them by himself.

In the end, everyone faced their nightmares alone.

o.O.o

The lure was relatively simple. Ka had not become a warlord of a species as capable of working together as a sack full of cats by creating overly complex plans. The simple ones were often, he knew, the best.

First he showed himself. Easy enough. Choosing the right spot was more difficult; he had to pick a relatively soggy area near a stream, so his footprints would show, yet not an area too swampy that might slow him down. There had to be trees nearby, to provide cover from arrows, but not too many or they would lose sight of him too fast. He couldn't just walk in then run out, they had to catch sight of him then chase of their own accord. It had to look _real_.

With that in mind, he lurked near the churned earth of the clearing for a good ten minutes before someone caught spotted him and started shouting. He could see the thin figure of the _Gàst_ near the 'gate, guarded by six elite in lacquered red metal armour, all of them armed with small but powerful crossbows. That was worrisome; the needle-guns of the raiders fired more rapidly but had less effect. Crossbows were slow, but their bolts caused more inconvenience to a fighting Wraith; one shot through the head and he'd never have to worry about what the _Gàst_ might do to him again.

Ka put this out of his mind as the rest spread out and started firing at him. It looked as though there might be twenty or thirty all told, all armed with more crossbows and highly disciplined. Yet despite this they were younger and less experienced than those guarding their master. Ka snorted as he turned tail and started to run. If he couldn't outwit these cublings he _deserved_ to die.

The chase was as long as he dared make it; a sprint through the swampy ground leading southwards, leaving clear tracks in that direction before diverting to a stream and doubling back eastward. The tracks from the brook were less plain but not unreadable – he hoped it looked as though he was putting a reasonable effort into throwing off pursuit. He reached a rocky area, doubled back again, then he clambered up one of the trees while careful not to leave marks on the trunk, and waited.

It was a surprisingly short time before the first soldier appeared underneath him, not even pausing before heading straight for the stone outcropping. Behind him were three others; two followed their tracker without question, the rearguard more cautious and scouting around for signs that might have escaped their churning boots. Ka gave them points for intelligence, but breathed much easier when he had lost sight of them. He could hear other patrols spreading out, and knew they were trying to encircle him – or where they _thought_ he was.

Clever. And brave. Probably a good thing they were encircling empty space – he could pretend he was giving them their lives as a reward for their wit.

Instead of hiding in a tree like a frightened human during a cull.

He waits for the forest to quiet, then leaps down as quietly as possible. That was not a great deal; he was heavily built for a Wraith due to the bulkiness of muscle that sometimes developed with assuming leadership, and stealth had never been a strong point of his. It was reflected in his fighting as well, he knew. Other Wraith, even scientists, managed to achieve a certain grace while fighting, making it seem almost like the ritualistic dances of the Worshippers, but Ka never had. He had to rely on stamina and raw strength in hand-to-hand combat.

Heavy or not he was light-footed when he needed to be; he ghosted back to the west with the eerie quietness that had given his kind their namesake among humans. There was little he could do about the tracks he was leaving in the snow save try to keep to the streams and already-trampled areas, and so he moved as quickly as possible. Ka hoped that with the _Gàst_ dead the soldiers would run; thirty would be impossible odds for a single Wraith, however many knives he had hidden on his person.

He reached the tree line again (whatever Sheppard or McKay might think he _did_ have a good sense of direction) and resumed lurking, then faltered. The Stargate was deserted.

Impossible. It _had_ to be a trick.

Ka drew closer to the forest edge, scanning the surrounding area. Churned slush made trying to see tracks from this distance impossible, but it didn't hide the irrevocable fact that the _Gàst_ was gone. He could neither see it nor feel it.

It struck him then, like a lightning bolt.

No.

What had he _done_?

Ka stood frozen, his heart a cold void, then started to run back to where he had left the humans. He had _forgotten_, forgotten the most important trait of his enemy. He had doomed them all.

The _Gàst_ could sense minds...

o.O.o

John was in the desert when he heard Ilu calling for him.

_Now... now John... it is time to come back now... _

He didn't question that the voice might belong to someone else or that it might be a hallucination; he had been sitting on the black sands staring at the horizon for eternity, and even a trick would be welcome. John stood up and listened.

_Go to the forest. _

"I can't," he whispered, cold despite the white heat of the sky and yellow sun. "_It's_ there."

_It is no longer there. There is nothing there that can hurt you. _He felt Ilu smile, and wanted to weep. _There never was. Go through the forest. _

Even Elizabeth would have had to argue, but John obeyed _this_ voice instantly. He knew he could trust Ilu.

As before the distance between him and the forest almost seemed to constrict, crumpling like a used tissue, so that in far too short a time he was standing near its border feeling the familiar cool breeze and listening to the silence that was the death of life rather than its mere absence. The desert was meant to be silent. Forests were not.

_Go through the forest, John. _

He obeyed.

It was darker than before; as soon as he stepped through it became twilight, heavy with shadows and secrets. He saw movement flicker out of the corner of his eyes, like the phantasms caused by hunting Wraith, but kept his gaze straight ahead and shivering with every ghostly streak. It wasn't real, it couldn't hurt him, none of this was real, he was safe, Ilu had promised he was safe...

A figure stepped onto the path, and he almost shrieked. Caution kept his mouth shut when it didn't attack, just stood there staring. After a moment he understood why.

It was dead.

The Wraith was grey-skinned, with the sunken eyeballs of the long deceased and rotting clothing showing many tears. Part of its skin had been flayed off and hung in flapping curtains; a long scar on its chest showed where the ribcage had been parted and a Y-shaped cut showed through a rip in its decaying coat. Several fingers were missing from its left hand, and the right was completely gone – only a weeping tarry stump remained.

It stared at him a long moment, dribbling black blood from between jagged teeth, the cocked its head in a silent question. John blinked and gathered his arms around himself, unable to answer, and eventually it turned away with what was almost sadness and stumbled back into the trees, dripping dark ichor onto the skeletons of leaves below it. John watched it until it was out of sight then edged onwards.

Around him, the dead gathered.

He glanced sideways. There was the husked Wraith he had seen before, turning to watch him as its skin flaked and drifted away with movement. Beside it were several young Wraith with blistered, burnt skin; they regarded him solemnly through melted jelly-like eyes before turning back to their game of tag. Another, older child parted from them; he was completely unhurt save for the blackened crater where his heart should have been, his undersized body tense and his eyes wary.

Thousands of Wraith, at the edge of sight. And _tens_ of thousands of humans.

"Ilu," he whispered again, almost petrified with fear.

_Be calm. They are not here to hurt you. _

There was a brown-haired Wraith queen near one of the trees; one arm was torn almost off and her throat had been ripped out, leaving vocal cords hanging in spaghetti strings. Beside her was another, as burnt and blistered as the children now playing silently among the ferns. Innumerable Wraith moved behind her, each as scorched and seared as she.

But Ilu was right. They weren't doing anything. Just watching.

John walked on.

The dead watched him leave.

o.O.o

He emerged – if _emerged_ was the right word – into a world lit with grey light from a sky filled with pregnant clouds, the air heavy and sharp on the tongue with promised snow. Around him were trees broken and blasted as though stomped on by the spoilt child of a giant, the snow around them split with splintered branches clawing their way outwards as though extending entreating hands to their fathers and mothers, begging for pity and pleading to be allowed back to their nurturing trunks. Frost had silvered some of their grasping finger-twigs like the blood of a dying unicorn, perhaps the last who had crawled here to die with a curse and a sigh. It was a bleak sight to awaken to, for that was what he realised he had done. As Ilu had said, the dead couldn't hurt him – they were only a dream.

Ka could have told him how wrong he was, but Ka was still shaking off pursuit and wouldn't come to his horror-struck realisation for another ten minutes or so. He was utterly alone.

John blinked and tried to move, hampered by the cocooning blankets and the woollen coat Rodney had wound him in after the first, almost fatal blizzard. A jabbing pain in his arm made him squirm, but something in him urged for quiet, and when he turned his had he saw why.

_The man was there. _

The dirty little traitor was lying down on his front and peering through the brush, making the snow steam from his body heat despite the thick fleecy coat wrapped around him. His back was to John, and he was alone.

John freed one hand and grasped at the smooth hardness that had been jabbing his elbow. It was a rock.

Carefully – quietly – he peeled the remaining blankets off, sliding out of the coat as well, knowing instinctively it would rustle and startle the man his eyes were fixed on. Eventually he managed to wriggle free, inch by careful inch, and stand up half-crouched like a stalking cat, his feet soft against the beaten snow.

o.O.o

Doctor Meredith Rodney McKay really had no chance. He looked up, perhaps prompted by an instinct older than PhDs and doctorates, but by then it was already too late. There was a wet smacking sound and a blinding pain in his head, then the last real vision of his best friend standing over him with a bloody rock.

The last thing he _actually_ saw was the man he had killed.

The bandit was laughing at him.

o.O.o

John knew none of this, although the look in the traitor's eyes as the light faded made him think briefly of sad things – of abandoned dogs and hurt children. He raised the rock again, thinking to end the filthy little crawler who had dared call him friend, but something halted the killing blow halfway. For some reason the girl on the bus rose to the forefront of his mind.

Perhaps it was the same feeling he had felt then. Like a tool being used to hurt others.

Or maybe it had just been the look in the traitor's eyes.

For whatever reason John dropped the rock and stumbled out of the bushes. Then he smiled and laughed.

Ilu was there.

o.O.o

Ka had only ever run faster once in his entire life, but as before so it was then – he was too late.

The _Gàst_ was there.

He was aware, vaguely, that it was using its natural talents at glamour to hide its true form; over the surface of its true image was a milky, indistinct one, like pastel reflections on melting ice. Ka, being neither human nor a hatchling, could see beneath the illusion to the creature within; he wasn't about to be duped by one of his own tricks. Or, as Carson might have put it if the doctor had been around to see, he was too much of a bullshiter to be bullshited.

It wasn't frightening or particularly horrifying. Ka had never seen as Asgard, but the resemblance would have been within spitting distance; the _Gàst_ was tall, taller than Sheppard, but thin as though made of twigs. Its face was bluish-grey and wrinkled, not terribly but then it didn't need to; it somehow radiated age as a collapsed star might radiate cold, and malevolence as a star, dead or not, never could. Yet it also radiated amusement, and no wonder, for standing directly between them was Sheppard, and standing on either side of the _Gàst_ were the six bodyguards it had chosen.

_Ah, you have seen fit to join us._ It was closer now, its mindspeech stronger and more distinct, and it slid through Ka's brain like a maggot. The _Gàst_ noticed his discomfort and wheezed a silent laugh. _So tardy, Ka, the eternal seeker who finds nothing. What would your brother say, if he did not already know how... late you could be? _

Ka didn't stop to spar with it; there was too much at stake to play its games. He couldn't see McKay anywhere, and knew he might already be too late but he had to try. The Wraith ran forward, fully determined to drag Sheppard back with him and take him out of its reach, then put an end to it forever.

But as soon as his fingers made contact that bony shoulder Sheppard screamed as though the touch burnt him, and the Wraith snatched his hand away, stepping backwards for good measure. Sheppard shook like a leaf in high wind and moaned, momentarily still.

The thing opposite gave a splinter-toothed smile._ Why don't we let_ him _decide where he wants to go, hm?_

"Get out of his mind," Ka growled, refusing to dignify the answer with telepathic speech. It felt too much like collaboration with the thing, whispers and knowing looks over the heads of mere mortals while the two diced away their fate without a care. And its consciousness was horrible to touch in any case; all slime and blackness like rotting flesh.

_Now, why would I do that?_

"He is nothing to you. A human."

It cocked its head, still smiling. _A pretty little human, you must admit. Such fire at the beginning! _It wheezed out a chuckle. _So pathetic now. But still a good little pet to play with._

Ka had been angry before, but now he was enraged. Sheppard might have been foolish, he might have been mistrusting, and he might have complicated the Wraith's life beyond all measure with his new ideas and stupid, stubborn bravery, but he had never been pathetic, and he certainly wasn't going to be this... _creature's_ pet. He answered in the only way he knew how.

Sheppard flinched visibly as the Wraith snarled, arms wrapped around his prominent ribs and scarred chest. Twig-like fingers fisted up the edges of his frayed tunic, fiddling with the hem nervously, and saucer eyes blinked. Ilu's smile didn't even falter.

"I will not let you control him," Ka said finally. He could hear the whimpers of the children cowering in the undergrowth, and mentally pleaded for them to be quiet. The thing cocked its head.

_Too late_, it whispered, its voice filled with ice crystals. _Far too late. He will die without me. His mind will shatter. I am the only one holding the fragments of his soul together, as you well know. He is_ mine.

Out loud it said "Come here, John."

Sheppard staggered forward a step, hesitated, and then carried on, walking as though both legs were broken. Ka stepped forward again to stop him, only to be halted by a whispered warning.

_I wouldn't, little Wraith. Have you ever seen what happens when a human loses his mind? It's such fun to see them scream and crawl._

He looked at the thing, his eyes narrowed to slits.

_All I have to do is let go. Do you want to see?_

Slowly, jerkily, the Wraith shook his head, feeling a small, cold void open inside him. He knew the unspoken threat behind the spoken one. If he fought or stepped forward, if he so much as spoke... they would both die. Or worse.

So he watched silently as his brother reeled on and was reeled in, until he stood before Ilu with a questioning stance and a shy, broken smile, pleading to be forgiven. The creature reached out and pulled him into an embrace, stroking his hair fondly.

"_Good_ boy."

A sharp pain in the Wraith's hands made him look down, to see blood trickling from sluggishly healing wounds. He had clenched his fists so hard his nails had cut into his palms.

Ilu looked over the top of the mussed-up hair, and now his smile was predatory.

Ka no longer cared. He had failed himself, failed his charge as he had failed Kyu and his son, failed his entire hive. He would die now gladly, burying his shame and disgrace forever, so Sheppard would ever know how terribly he had managed to get this wrong.

o.O.o

Ilu was here, and he was safe. John swayed dreamily, his mind blissfully blank and happy as the thin fingers combed through his hair and promised that everything was going to be all right.

"C'n we go home now?" he mumbled.

He felt Ilu smile kindly. "Of course."

Then coldness enveloped him, and he felt the smile turn savage. He didn't need to see to know that Ilu was looking at the Wraith, the horrible Wraith that had taken him away and hurt him. Ilu would sort him out properly, John knew that.

"But first let us get rid of this annoying creature," Ilu said.

_Swish-thunk. _

_Swish-thunk._

The noise made John turn around in time to see the Wraith stagger, two arrows protruding from its skinny chest. It took a step backwards, then forwards again, swaying like a drunk looking for a doorway to crash in, then lifted its feeding hand up to the shafts slowly. Ichor was leaking out of the holes, staining the hand with blood that not only _looked_ black, but he knew _was_ black, black and sticky as tar. He knew because he had killed Wraith before and they had bled black as well, black like evil and darkness and monsters, so he knew it was okay to kill them.

Ilu was laughing, and John found that he was as well, because the stupid thing looked so funny standing there, staring at the arrows as though it had never seen one before and touching the flights as if to check they were real. It dropped its hand; its fingers still gummed with tarry-blood, and stared at him instead. He expected it to roar and attack like the others had, but it just watched with eyes full of hurt and despair, and John started to feel uneasy. _It should snarl. It should fight. It shouldn't just _stand there_. _

_Swish-thunk. _

_Swish-thunk. _

_Swish-thunk. _

Three more arrows hit, so now its chest bristled like a porcupine, and it sank down to its knees. Ilu was still laughing, but John had stopped now. The damn thing was acting too _human_, just kneeling there in the dirt while the soldiers reloaded, not even moving as their crossbows _click clicked_ back to firing position. He felt irrationally angry.

_Why doesn't the stupid thing _do_ something?_

But it didn't; it just knelt and waited.

He went over to one of the soldiers and drew their sword, walking over to the Wraith purposefully. Behind him the man was stopped by Ilu, and John heard him say "Let him kill it. He is _good_ at killing them."

And so he was; maybe the best ever. He walked up to the creature – and it _still_ hadn't moved – and prodded it with the sword, not caring if the tip got stuck on one of the arrows. It looked up at him dully, gasping for breath.

"Come on," he said angrily. "_Do_ something."

"What are you suggesting?" it rasped, and he heard an undercurrent of dark humour in its words. That just made him angrier.

"Get up. Attack us." It lowered its gaze down to the slush underneath them and he snorted. "Go on; tell us we're all about to die. Isn't that what Wraith usually do?"

It just shook its head and looked back up, its lips pulled back in a stark grin. Black blood was leaking from the corner of its mouth. "I would never win. Why should I?"

"You're_ giving up_?" he asked incredulously, feeling the anger come back, all hot and swelling. "You're a _Wraith_. Wraith _never_ give up!"

It exhaled softly and whispered "I thought you never did either, Sheppard."

It coughed, bringing up more blood. John watched numbly as the ichor dribbled and stained its mouth black, like the smile of a dieing clown, or the lips of a slit throat in a corpse. A whistling sound shrilled out every time it inhaled and exhaled, sharp and fragile as a shard of ice. A small, cold part of his mind knew what that meant, that noise. He had heard it before. The thing had three arrows in its lungs; air was leaking out as fast as the blood was in leaking _in_, so now there was no hope for it at all even if it could stand up, because to heal something that bad it would have to feed and it was far too weak for that. It could barely even hold its head up _now_.

The whistling went on,_ ha-heee, ha-heee_, as though it was _laughing_ at him. He was suddenly angry again, pissed off beyond all measure, and he kicked it hard in the side without even thinking. It was like kicking a rock.

"What the _fuck_ is so funny?" he shouted.

It didn't even twitch. _Too far gone_, his mind whispered at him. Might as well be flogging a dead horse, all the good he was doing. Might as well be shouting at Steve or Bob, all the reaction he was going to get from it.

Might as well put it out of its misery. _I'm sorry, Johnny_, his mother said from over thirty years ago, as he held their pet Border Collie in his arms after the road accident. The blood had ruined his best shirt, because it had been a Saturday and they had been going to Grandpa Sheppard's. _Sometimes there's nothing you can do for them but make sure they go quickly. _

_Put them out of their misery,_ his father added from across the vet's table.

He raised the sword, and found Ilu at his elbow watching them both and nodding at John approvingly. He looked pleased, as though John had done something good like clearing the table without being asked, or calling home on David's birthday unexpectedly.

"Go ahead, John," he said. "Put it to sleep."

The Wraith managed to look up then, not pleading or begging, just watching. John gripped the sword with sweaty fingers, and what the hell was going on anyway? Before the tiny, pale little winter sun had given off no warmth, but now everything felt as hot as the Colorado Desert, or by the wreak of a helicopter in Afghanistan...

He raised the sword up, checking where it would land. Right through the neck, slice through the throat; sever the arteries, crunch through bone and out the other side. Let the stupid thing try and recover from decapitation!

A small, curly-haired bullet shot out from the bushes near the crippled gate, shrieking like a banshee.

"You leave him '_lone_!"

It hit him hard and knocked him sideways, making the sword waver dangerously close to the small, curly-haired bullet's head. Another shriek – this one more of fear than anger – followed, along with a girl dressed in a long leather coat far too big for here and holding a knife with splotchy rust-like stains on the handle.

"Dav!"

Bullet had stopped; hand on hips and glaring at John like he was a playground bully, making sure he was between the colonel and the Wraith. The girl in the coat, who was so close to him in appearance she was unmistakably a relative, stopped when she reached him and looked at John and Ilu in terror, then tried to push her brother behind her while keeping hold of the blade. Her face had turned pasty-white, the same colour as old milk.

More small forms erupted from the same bushes, forming up in a tight little group around the boy and girl. They were carrying a variety of weapons that looked as though they'd been stolen from someone's kitchen and back yard. None of them looked old enough to have left elementary school, or as if they had washed since the day they were born. The Wraith hissed something at them, making John raise the sword again, but the children ignored it. One of them – carrying a patch work bag that dragged down to his knees – shuffled back and started to inspect the arrows, looking for all the world like the galaxy's smallest doctor. It pushed the child away gently, hissing again.

The curly-haired kid was still glaring at him, his face screwed up and furious. "You leave him 'lone, stupid offworlder! He always told us he was gonna save you, so you _s'possed_ to be grateful. You're just a stupid, dung-brained..."

"Dav," his sister whispered in a small voice, her face now grey. "Dav, please be quiet."

Ilu stepped forward a pace, making them all back away in terror. He smiled.

"Listen to your sister, Dav," he said smoothly.

"Ain't l-listening to _y-you_ anymore!" said one of the other kids. He was holding a hatchet in both of his dirty hands, and was shaking so hard his teeth rattled. "Y-you j-just swagger around and m-mess people up and pretend you're a big person, only you're _n-not_. You're j-just a big, arrogant b-bully who likes to hurt people. S-so you can just _shut up_!"

Some of the other children cheered, only to be quelled instantly by Ilu's gaze. Bullet-kid stepped forward to shove him away, only to have his shoulder caught and gripped by long, hard fingers. He screamed in fury and struggled, kicking Ilu in the leg.

With a curse Ilu threw him back to the floor, then gestured to the soldiers. Each one came forward to grab a kid, one holding a pair that looked like twins barely out of kindergarten. Ilu turned back to John, still frozen, and the Wraith, who was snarling weakly and trying to rise. He saw neither was capable of moving and gestured again.

The remaining soldier came forward, crossbow fixed in place by both hands. He drew level with his master and gave a slight nod, before stepping up to the Wraith and taking aim.

John saw it happen. He saw the man's finger squeeze the release, saw the string slam forward and hit the guard with a dull _thump_, saw the bolt fly the short distance between the bow and its target. He heard the wet crunch it made as it hit the Wraith's head just behind its left eye, blowing half of it away, scattering tissue and bone fragments over the leaf mould. He saw the remainder pinned to the ground by the shaft, the Wraith's legs kicking and jerking like a shot deer until they were finally, mercifully still. Ding-dong, the witch was dead, only in this screwed-up Pegasus version of The Land of Oz the witch was both male and an alien, and the Munchkins were trying to protect it instead of dancing over the body.

He blinked and the split-second vision was gone. The soldier was squeezing the release.

The boy with the hatchet, still spitting and struggling in the arms of his captor, saw what was happening and screamed a warning. Bullet-kid's sister turned and wailed, before swinging her fists at the soldier in desperation, knife reversed so that the handle swung at the tip of the blow.

It might have missed.

It didn't.

The blow struck the back of the soldier's knees, jolting the crossbow up to fire at the sky. The man pitched forward with a yelp, and he might have recovered with nothing more than acute embarrassment and a bruise if he hadn't stepped forward just a pace too far.

The Wraith's hand shot out like a striking cobra, grabbing the soldier by his coat and pulling him down. His yelp turned to a scream, then to a gurgling wail as his life was snatched out of him in bare minutes, killing him by the time his comrades had seen what was happening and taken several hasty steps back.

The Wraith pushed itself up slowly, the arrows in its chest still hampering its movements. For a moment no-one stirred a muscle.

Then the scene exploded.

Ilu screamed in fury, the children scattered, the soldiers swore, swinging up their weapons and the Wraith launched itself at another victim, slamming its feeding hand into the man's chest so hard John heard bones crack. The man's shriek of agony made him cringe automatically; his mind fleeing back to where the screams had been his own and the tormentors human...

One soldier, quicker off the mark than the others, fired his crossbow at the Wraith's head. It swung around, using the rapidly husking victim as a shield, but the bolt still might have struck true if a swarthy-skinned boy of about eight years hadn't thrown himself at the archer and hit him with his patch work bag using both hands. The sack connected with the small of the soldiers back, tipping the crossbow up as it fired and sending the arrow into a tree. The Wraith discarded its now-dead prey and threw itself at the third man, grappling for his neck.

John stood, frozen, as another arrow hit it in the shoulder. It roared with pain but continued to struggle with the third guard, wrenching his head back and slicing his throat with an evil-looking knife before turning to the others. It was now three to one, but even John could see it was weakening, the bristling arrows paining it. The sword slipped in his sweaty hands as it roared again defiantly, the charged at the remaining soldiers like a wounded bear.

Later he still wouldn't know what gave him the strength to move despite his fear; Rodney and perhaps even the Wraith would have been able to tell him but both would keep their own council, knowing that sometimes the truth is all the more powerful for its secrecy. John ran forward in shaking legs, but run he did, and the two-handed blow he aimed at the Wraith's neck while it grappled with all three remaining soldiers at once would have surely decapitated it if it had been stupid enough to let the sword land.

As it was it ducked, and John found himself flying backwards and landing with a _crack_ Rodney would have gone into hysterics over had Rodney been able to see it. If he had been in possession of both his wits and unadulterated memory he would have known the punch had been pulled – if the Wraith had been hitting at full power his ribs would have been smashed through his lungs and he would have drowned in his own blood. Instead John lay there, breathless and bruised, feeling dazedly as though he had been hit by a truck.

An ear-shattering scream shattered his shock to atoms, making him scramble up and grab the sword with numb fingers. A fourth soldier lay unmoving in the snow, a fifth was on his back and trying to struggle upright despite a horrific wound in his belly that was belching gouts of blood in a steaming fountain, and the sixth was shrieking and kicking his withering legs at his captor as his life was drained in slow inches, his back turned to the other two contemptuously. John didn't need the directed burst of rage from Ilu or the innate order that came from it – his own anger was real enough.

And unnecessary.

He saw the gleam of the crossbow in the fifth soldier's hand, the other tugging weakly at the trigger as his life spilt to the snow, flying backwards with the force of it firing and not getting up again. The arrow flew straight, hitting the Wraith above its shoulder blades just as it was dropping the husked corpse of the unfortunate sixth soldier. John expected the bolt to do nothing more than make it roar and spin in fury, as all the others had, but it struck true. The impact threw the Wraith forward into the churned-up snow, and it didn't rise.

John could hear screaming and pitiful crying – he had forgotten the children – but something compelled him to walk closer and look for himself. The Wraith turned to look at him as he approached, hissing weakly, but it could do no more. The arrow had struck and lodged in its spine, blocking any attempts at healing. From the shoulders down it was as dead as the soldiers it had killed.

He was still holding the sword...

"Well done John." The voice made him start; Ilu had moved to stand beside him silently, and was now speaking as though he had shot the bolt himself. "Now, finish it."

"Sheppard, don't!"

For a delirious moment he was sure it was the Wraith who had spoken, but then he saw the figure lurching out from the brush. The dirty little traitor, his head still streaming blood from the rock John had wielded, now completely weaponless. Ilu snorted in annoyance, muttering "Will this creature _never_ die?" He turned to John and gestured contemptuously at the traitor. "Kill him, then the parasite. It is time to end this."

The traitor stopped and swallowed nervously as he tried to raise the sword. It had somehow gotten heavier; as John tried to lift it he felt as though he was trying to lift every dealer of death he had ever wielded, hyper-compacted into a crude iron blade. The other man licked dry lips. "Uh..."

"John?" That was him wasn't it? But... "Kill him!"

John stared at the traitor, who stared back, too petrified to move. It was logical, of course it was logical, the man had betrayed him, abandoned him, paired up with a Wraith to steal him away from the only safe place he had; he was a liar and a trickster and a thief...

... But...

He could feel the nameless girl, watching him over the years.

He had never been a tool for someone else's hatred. He had flown missions, sure, but they had been flown for his friends, his team, they had struck first before the enemy could attack and put those cherished beings in danger. Never mind the orders or the brass; they were only tools themselves, directing his urge to protect. Every life he had taken had been of his own free will. Every one.

John could feel Ilu's will pressing on him. He could feel the unassailable logic. But those things didn't matter. It was up to him to choose.

And despite everything, despite all the lies and the pressure and the hatred and the black, black despair... he didn't want to kill this man.

It was that simple.

Whether John could have held on to that thought under the directed fury and compulsion from Ilu is impossible to say. It would be nice to think so, but the question became irrelevant as soon as the malevolent being grew impatient enough to snatch the sword from John's fingers and stride forward to do the deed himself. Before John could move or even cry out the blade was drawn back then flickered forwards, quicker than the tongue of a viper.

There was one thing that was quicker.

The leather-coated girl, still wielding her stained weapon, moved to block the blow. The point of the sword glanced off the little vegetable-cutting knife and entered just below her ribcage, sliding in as easily and smoothly as it might have through warm butter. Bright blood spurted from the wound, gushing horribly as the sword slithered out and the girl swayed, her mouth opened as though she were about to ask a question. Then her legs crumpled, and she was kicked aside disdainfully by Ilu, who raised the sword one more.

The traitor had turned a faint greenish colour, as though he was about to vomit or cry or both, but he managed to say "You shouldn't have done that."

Ilu curled his upper lip up over his teeth. "Oh?"

John didn't understand, didn't _want_ to. There was a girl lying in the snow that was blushing crimson with gore, a girl who looked barely indo her teenage years, and Ilu had killed her. Killed her and kicked her aside, like garbage. He could hear scuffling sounds behind him, but he didn't turn until the traitor spoke again wearily.

"Look behind you, you _bastard_."

o.O.o

From her position crumpled between Rodney and the Lord she had feared all her rational years, Meera could see clearly what had happened before the burning in her stomach, and what happened after.

She saw Zaiq run towards Ace, ignored in the chaos, and grasp both hands tightly around the spine-lodged arrow. She saw the bolt dragged out by painful inches, then the Overlord start to rise, pulling out the other arrows as though removing splinters, the crossbow that had almost killed him grasped tightly in one hand. She saw Lord Ilu turn, the scream.

She saw, through the greyish mist clouding her vision, Ace raise the crossbow and fire. Just once.

Once was enough.

Lord Ilu crumpled as she had, but he would not be seeing anything. The bolt had hit him in the centre of the chest, throwing him backwards and sending up a splatter of blood like an exclamation mark. He dropped, and so did the outlander Rodney had called Sheppard, but only Sheppard was screaming as he did so.

Such terrible screams, Meera though with hazy concern. She felt herself drifting and let the grey mist descend a little more, blocking out those awful sounds. It was so soft and comfortable, lying here. She could lie here forever, except she was starting to hiccup, great big wet hiccups that added more red to the crimson already staining her coat, and it was so _embarrassing_. But also a relief because you couldn't die of _hiccups_,_ no-one_ died of hiccups, so she'd be all right. Rodney and Ace were here, so she'd be alright.

The screams stopped. Boots trod heavily towards her, there were people gathering around, touching the wound and crying, but she couldn't seem to make herself care. It had gone from burning to cold; even the pain had stopped, and so had the hiccups. Everything was alright.

Everything was...

Everything...

o.O.o

It wasn't fair. It wasn't _fair_. It had always been a joke..._ ha-ha, yeah, when Rodney dies we have to say it was saving children, because he hates the little brats, yeah that's McKay, can't even cope with miniature humans but looking at his dealings with the big versions is that any wonder? _Just a stupid, _stupid_ joke, and now there was a child, and she was dying at his feet, and he couldn't do anything except watch.

"_Save_ her," he snarled at the Wraith, who was bending over the girl as well. Her skin was going a pallid white, like salt, marred only by the gory strings that had splattered from her mouth as she coughed up blood. Behind them both Sheppard lay quiet, which was thanks to neither of them. He had stopped and lain still as suddenly and completely as if he had been turned off by an invisible switch. On any other day Rodney would have been beside him as the Wraith had been, but he was too busy keeping both hands over the gaping hole in the body of a child. A _child_. Someone who should be up and annoying him, not lying still and pale and cold. "You're the one with the, the weird return-life abilities, _save_ her."

It managed to be intimidating even kneeling down. "The Gift is useless here," it snarled at him, and if it had been any other species he would have said it grieved.

"So inject enzyme, let _that_ heal her..."

"Our enzyme _increases_ heart rate as it heals," it hissed, displaying teeth. "How fast do you want her to bleed out?"

Meera slackened, her breathing slowing until it was almost unnoticeable. Rodney panicked as the other children started to wail. "Do _something_."

It growled like a thunderstorm, probably debating the wisdom of removing Rodney's head as it had the bandit, then said gruffly "Dial the portal. The point of origin is this..." It traced a symbol on the blood-tinged slush, deep enough to be clear. "Your facilities in the city might save her." McKay hesitated. "Do you wish her death?"

No, when all was said and done, he didn't. Rodney pushed himself up, hands painted as red as the knees of his pants and ran down the dip to the DHD. His fingers were disgustingly tacky across the keys as he punched them, sticking to the central hemisphere as he pushed it down to see the bright blue flare of the connecting wormhole.

And on the other side... Atlantis.

On the other side... _home_.

Rodney ran back to where the Wraith was still trying to stem Meera's blood loss, then past to where Sheppard lay and picked up one limp arm, grunting and swearing as he tried to imitate Ronon and throw Sheppard over him in a fireman's lift, having to settle for an inelegant half-on half-off position that made him lurch in a very undignified way. He noted sourly that the Wraith managed to pick up the dying girl without as much as a stumble.

"Kids!" The semi-hysterical children turned from where they were clustered around _both_ of their heroes. "Stay close to me; we're leaving _now_."

He didn't bother to explain or stay to calm them – wasted effort from Rodney McKay – but set off at a hurried lurch down the desiccated streambed, the thunder of his heartbeat rising to a possible seizure drowning out any noise the others might have made.

And, to judge by the shouts as they made it to the clearing, and sounds that a group of heavily armed and armoured soldiers might have made. Rodney broke into a run, stumbled, screamed a curse, then opted for a very quick trot. Something whizzed past his ear with a noise like an angry hornet and disappeared through the event horizon. Wouldn't _that_ be a surprise for whoever was at the other end...

Another arrow smacked the snow by his feet, sending up a fountain of slush. Rodney broke the habit of a lifetime and started praying. Almost there...

The jumble of Wraith and human hit the human almost as one mass, but Rodney didn't care. They were safe. _He_ was safe.

He was going home.


	12. Brought to Life: Chapter 1

Er.... hi?

I'm a bad, bad person. Nothing new about that, but on top of being perverted, cruel and an atheist, I am also tardy. Damned if I'll apologise for the first three, but for the last... um, sorry?

Everyone, direct your attention to Queen of the Red Skittle. On her lies the thanks (blame?) for this update. Take a tip: guilt through compliments _works_.

* * *

_Wake me up inside  
Wake me up inside  
Call my name and save me from the dark  
Bid my blood to run  
Before I come undone  
Save me from the nothing I've become_

– Evanescence, _Bring Me To Life_

o.O.o

It was a sad thing to discover after a lifetime in both military and scientific careers, but despite the two fields' preoccupation with black and white sometimes there were _degrees_ of truth.

If, for example, someone had asked Colonel Samantha Carter at various points in her life if the disappearance of one Doctor Rodney McKay would make her happy, the answer would have been a resounding 'yes'. While it was possible to respect Rodney he was still a hard man to like, and most didn't really see any point in making an effort. Sam had, but for the most part she had failed utterly. Yet now, during that disappearance, she found herself listening at every 'gate check and dialling for the words "Dr McKay's IDC!", for the irate tones of the scientist to berate them over the com channels, or even just a miraculous reappearance in one of his labs... anything. Something.

Something other than a cold and brutal death by Wraith feeding, something other than a gap no-one seemed to be able to fill.

First their chief military officer, then their chief scientist... both leaving no corpses behind, no full coffins to mourn over. Empty ones had been sent back to Earth, but what were they worth?

AR-1 hadn't been out in the field since Sheppard disappeared. How could they? Officially Lieutenant Davis and Dr McMillan had been reassigned there, but it meant nothing. Teyla had been accepting but distant, Ronon... well, if he hadn't been thinking of leaving before he certainly was now. Sam suspected the only reason the Satedan had stayed so far was because he had a better chance of tracking down those responsible with their resources, not that there was _officially_ anything being done to either search for or avenge Rodney and John. Officially.

Unofficially their current Acting CO Major Lorne had pinpointed perhaps ten different worlds that sounded as though the raiders might come from them, and Dr Zelenka had cross-referenced the location that John's 'buddy' Wraith had asked for a meeting on with the hiveships the sensors picked up in that area. Even if rescue was not an option, vengeance was.

"Unscheduled offworld activation!"

Even though Sam knew it was probably nothing, just an away team calling in early, her heart quickened. Hope was a funny thing, like how grief was and clowns weren't. She smiled as she remembered the conversation that had led to Sheppard telling her of his phobia, after she had embarrassed herself by screaming like a... well, a girl over a snake-like creature brought back from M3G-458. He'd made her feel better by telling her about the time he'd freaked out and hidden in a toilet during the birthday celebration of a friend at his air base. Apparently the clown with the balloons had been a joke.

"Raise the shield." It was shameful to admit, but she preferred the Atlantis energy shield to the old SGC iris. It was probably blasphemy of some sort, but the iris had always struck her as too... material. As though making it solid and _there_ made it vulnerable. It was all too easy to imagine the metal crumpling under repeated battering, bursting open, spewing forth horrors. But the energy shield was just pretty lights, like magic. Magic to keep you safe.

"Receiving... no." Chuck frowned. "Lost it."

"Chuck?"

"We started receiving a transmission but it stopped," the technician explained, still scowling with puzzlement. He started tapping keys to bring up the readings. "Here..."

They both stared at the readout for a long time in utter silence.

"No," Sam whispered, but it was denial of hope instead of fear. Hope could hurt just as much. "It's a trick."

"Ma'am?" Chuck looked up at her, his expression making her chest hurt. "It... why would the signal stop if it was a trick?"

"Something happened. Anything." She swallowed dry dust. "Maybe they faked it, but their transmitter stopped working."

"Could be ma'am." He sounded doubtful, and no wonder. Sam wasn't entirely convinced herself. Anyone who could calibrate a signal to fake an IDC would certainly be able to open a com channel, which had not happened and made no sense. Even the most stupid of plotters would surely realise they would be suspicious.

Shield or not, she wanted to make sure. "Put me on the military channel."

"Yes ma'am." Chuck typed in the necessary commands and patched her in. Sam crisply ordered two marine teams up to the gate room, and was just starting to wonder if perhaps she had just wasted the time of eight men without cause when Chuck said sharply "Receiving two IDCs!"

He heart jumped. "Whose?"

"Dr McKay's and..." Chuck trailed off. "And... Colonel Sheppard's, ma'am."

"Lower the shield," her mouth said, while her brain listened in horror. It had to be a trick, it _had_ to be; there was no _way_ that these two MIAs that had become KIAs would suddenly walk through the event horizon to berate her for giving in. It had to be the Wraith, in league with their former prisoner, perhaps even something that had been planned for months.

Yet she did nothing aside from order another two teams up to the gate room, then sit and wait calmly. It was possible, however unlikely, that they had managed to escape and make their way to a 'gate, and even if they hadn't... she would happily deal with an army of hungry Wraith if it meant John and Rodney returning safe and whole.

As her thought had summoned them from thin air they appeared and _oh_ they were _alive_, bloody and bruised and one being supported on the other but _alive_. Sam felt her eyes start to fill with salt water that she absently brushed away, but didn't try to stop. They were _alive, alive, alive... _

Then the Wraith appeared, covered in blood and holding what looked like a dead girl, surrounded by hysterical, sobbing, incredibly dirty children.

That was when things got complicated.

o.O.o

For a moment the sheer utter relief of being back where it was safe and clean and he could get food whenever he wanted was so overwhelming Rodney didn't see the guns being pointed his way. Until, of course, the Wraith typically came along and spoiled everything.

Wraith. Meera. Oh crap.

"Medical team!" Rodney yelled – more like _screeched_ – at the top of his lungs. It was so loud he could have sworn a few marines actually jumped. "We need a medical team _now_!"

He saw one grunt started babbling into his headset and the pale, blond-framed face of Sam in the viewing window above them babbling something else into her own earpiece. Help was coming, but it might already be too late because he could feel his knees buckling under the weight of his comatose friend and suddenly the world went past rather quickly upwards. Stupid world.

A shot and a gargled yowl almost made his heart stop. He swung around in time to see the Wraith backing away from Meera like a startled and extremely scruffy cat being chased from a mouse, the hole in its throat already healing from the bullet that had passed straight through and clattered off the metal of the Stargate behind it. The marine who had fired the warning shot holstered his sidearm and drew his P90– Rodney wondered briefly why he hadn't used that in the first place before realising the crowded children would have become collateral damage, at least before they had all scattered – looking ready to finish off the job.

"No! Uh... stand down! Don't shoot!" The man froze, not daring to look back at him but not firing either. "He's helping. Well, was... oh _crap_."

Without the Wraith putting pressure on the gash it was starting to flow again, and from the looks of Meera's deathly pale she didn't have much more to lose. Rodney wasn't even sure she was actually alive in any real sense, pumping blood or not. Without stopping he abandoned Sheppard – which he could feel guilty about _later_; Sheppard was _not_ the one with the giant hole in his gut right now – and knelt by the bleeding girl, covering the gaping wound with both hands and a deep feeling of disgust. Well, he didn't cope well with blood. _So sue me. _

Rodney held the lips of the gash together, and tried not to be sick.

o.O.o

Jennifer's heart was doing a double-time beat as she rushed up to the 'gate, stretcher and what emergency life support she could carry at the ready. The message that had reached her as she was stitching yet another of the unfortunates who had been foolish enough to train with Ronon recently had made her gut turned cold even as she rallied every spare medic and nurse who could be spared and prepped the stretcher: _Young female with apparent stab wound in the abdomen, bleeding profusely. _And the equally chilling: _May be DOA. _

She had expected this, and this wasn't the first time she had dealt with trauma injuries. Even so the sight that met her eyes in front of the 'gate made her feel weak with shock.

_Young female _had been an understatement. Jenny had been expecting a woman in her early twenties, at the most someone of eighteen or so. But this was a _child_, a girl who looked barely into puberty, and from the blood smeared across her, the Wraith (the _Wraith_) behind her and the man trying to keep pressure over the injury then DOA was probably more likely than not. Jenny had specifically avoided a career in paediatric surgery because she didn't feel she could operate on children, and now...

She ran up anyway, then saw who was applying the first aid and stopped cold. "_Rodney_?"

He barely glanced up. "Hey, how you doing. Sheppard's over there, he's had some kind of fit or something. I don't know. And they filled A... the Wraith with enough arrows to turn him into a colander." Rodney glanced back, and Jenny glanced up, resisting a strong urge to take a step backwards at the proximity of said creature. It graced her with a scornful look behind the curtain of surrounding marines. "Not that it matters now, I guess."

Taking in the size of the trauma wound in the girl, Jenny agreed. As fast as was possible she ushered Rodney out of the way and took his place keeping the wound closed, waiting for the nurses to slap on a dressing with a clotting agent before helping them lift the girl gently onto the stretcher and waiting trolley. Eight years of experience took over as soon as they started moving. "Nurse Brendan, Nurse Llewellyn, assist Doctor Varga in looking after Colonel Sheppard. Check for any head injuries or signs of concussion, then bring him to the infirmary."

The named people nodded and scattered at once. Jenny activated her earpiece and radioed ahead to the theatre. "Doctor Cole, we're on our way to you now. You need to make sure everything's ready for when we get there: we'll need to operate as soon as possible to stop the bleeding. And get that scanner Rodney found, she's lost a lot of blood."

The journey was far too long for Jenny's liking; every second not spent saving the girl was a second that killed her a little more. Although she did her best not to show it (well aware she was probably failing miserably), she was deeply worried.

Jenny had been aware when she joined the expedition of the types of wounds she might see; Atlantis had already been occupied for a year at that point and had been well able to send a full and horrifying list of the injuries some of its members had suffered. But even prepared as she had thought she was, Jenny had been pitched in the deep end when she arrived. No amount of words could prepare someone for their first sight of a Wraith victim; the shock of seeing an eighty year old man where a fresh-faced young marines had been only hours before. Added to that, less than two years after she had started her boss had been killed in an accident involving, of all things, an exploding tumour, and she'd been thrust into a command she neither wanted nor felt qualified for – a fact she had made apparent to Dr Weir with more than a little desperation. And after that _Dr Weir_ had been involved in an accident as well, sustaining eventually fatal injuries.

Jenny knew, intellectually, that there was nothing she could have done to save Elizabeth, but there was still a little, niggling part of her that insisted that _Carson_ could have found a way. _Carson_ could have saved Elizabeth without resorting to potentially deadly nanites. It wasn't true, and she _knew_ it wasn't, but it still niggled at her whenever she tried even the most minor surgery:_ Carson could be doing this better. _

She wished she could hate the dead man, but she couldn't. Like most of the other medical staff, hell, most of the _base_, Jenny had adored the Scotsman. She would give anything for him to be waiting in the surgery for her, ready to take on the awesome responsibility of saving this little girl's life. Anything at all.

Of course he wasn't there, and the responsibility fell entirely to her. The girl was lifted carefully from the already-stained trolley, an anaesthetic mask strapped over her pale face and the clothing around the wound cut away. Dr Cole drew blood samples from the meagre supply left and hurried off the cloning device Rodney had brought them months ago; it replicated simple human tissues such as blood and skin, a godsend here with the amount of injuries they had to treat. It wasn't as though there was a blood bank within the nearest hundred or so light-years...

"Okay..." She faltered briefly, seeing that pale little face, but then her courage resolved. "I'll need a scalpel and a hemostat first. We need to open her up to work this properly."

For a moment, when the blade touched her hand, she saw Elizabeth's face in front of her again, and heard her own fear whispering slyly.

_Carson could be doing this better._

Jenny's jaw set in an expression the good doctor himself would have recognised and approved of at once.

_But Carson isn't here. _

She brought the blade down to young skin, and started to work.

o.O.o

The definition of insanity was when someone was shot through the throat and another suffered from exhaustion, but it was the latter that ended up being fussed over by three different nurses and the former who was escorted into the nearest (well, _only_) available brig.

Not that Rodney was complaining about the attention, or stupid enough to feel sorry for a Wraith. Really.

Sheppard was on the bed next to him, due to his flat refusal to be separated by more than a metre from his friend, and despite various well-meaning medical flunkies the children had managed to crawl, squeeze and wriggle their way to his bed, bombarding him with anxious and all-too-pertinent questions as his various scrapes were cleaned and smeared with antiseptic ointment.

"Where's Meera?"

"Is she dead?"

"Are they burying her?"

"What's wrong with the offworlder?"

"Where's Ace?" one of the twins sniffled. Soon most of the others were starting to imitate her – him – it? – which he seriously didn't need right now on top of everything else.

"She's in theatre and no she's not and no _they're_ not and I don't know. And Ace is in the brig." He hoped. Much as he might dislike the Wraith and much as the Wraith might dislike being confined it was better than a trip to the morgue. Rodney flinched as the nurse treating his injuries caught on tender flesh, but unusually stopped himself from fully berating her. He might not be the king of tact but he knew that shouting would probably cause the brat brigade to start flooding the immediate area with tears, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. The only thing worse than annoying children was crying ones.

"What's a brig?" the other twin asked at the same time Dav asked "Why's she in a play-house?"

"A brig is a, uh." He wasn't sure how to say _prison_, since they'd probably take it the wrong way. Or the right way. Whatever. "It's a place where people go to... rest. And it's not a _drama_ theatre, it's a surgery theatre. Where people get... fixed."

Yeah. _Fixed_. By being cut open and sewn up again, but they didn't need to know that.

The information seemed to calm them down, except for Niack, who Rodney suspected was too clever by half. "_You're_ resting _here_."

Crap. "It's a special rest." _Yeah, the sort involving handcuffs and titanium-based bars. And don't forget the force field. _Rodney did his best to glare menacingly, which in retrospect was a bit stupid... _ill-advised_. They hero-worshipped a _Wraith_ for crying out loud; a glaring scientist was probably small cheese."Now go back to your beds and be quiet, you understand? Ow!"

"Please keep still, Dr McKay," the nurse said, while the children developed selective deafness and stayed firmly put. They did shut up, though, something for which Rodney was sincerely grateful. He glanced over at the bed next-door, where Sheppard was lying nearly as still and white as Meera had, although thankfully without the blood. Rodney had nasty feelings about what had caused his sudden seizure and present comatose state, which was why he wanted the Wraith _alive_. As the only current expert on the _Gàst_ they would need to talk to it before long.

Time for a few questions himself. "What's wrong with Sheppard?" The doctor hovering over said colonel – Vargo, Varga, something like that – was starting to insert IV lines, which boded ill for Sheppard's long-term prospects in the waking world.

"I, I'm not sure, I..." Funnily enough, or not when you considered Sheppard's rampant Kirk complex, the nurse looked almost as upset about the colonel's condition as Rodney felt. "He's physically fine, he just won't wake up. The only head wound we found was relatively minor, although Doctor Varga," Varg_a_, he'd have to remember that, "is going to scan him as soon as he can."

Rodney wondered why Sheppard had a head injury at all, until he realised that the man's direct route to the ground during his fit would probably have knocked him about a little. "You mean as soon as he can be bothered or as soon as Sheppard drops dead of a brain aneurysm?"

The nurse swallowed, sounding strained. "Dr McKay..."

"Yes, _Doctor_, of _real_ science instead of your hocus-pocus voodoo. Don't forget it."

"... The scanner is currently being used on someone with compound fractures at the moment. As soon as they are finished Dr Varga will treat your friend."

"He'd better," Rodney retorted, not in the slightest bit mollified. "I know where the controls are to his private quarters. Unless he _wants_ a lifetime of cold showers and loud noises at odd hours." It wasn't threatening if you were stating a fact. Not that he had any moral objection to threatening people, just as long as it was _him_ holding the big stick.

The nurse, wisely or unwisely, decided that he'd been taped up and bandaged enough and hurried off to treat some other unfortunate. The children hung around, hunkering down like a flock of scared mice around Rodney's bed despite his attempts at shooing them back to their own. Disobedient brats.

The clock ticked. Nurses hurried about with preoccupied expressions, doctors with worried ones. A stocky man with a face making valiant attempts to appear around his beard arrived and wheeled Sheppard away on a trolley, presumably to the scan – at least he'd better be. Rodney hadn't been kidding about the cold showers. The children appeared to want to settle in for the night and huddled down around him, despite all his efforts to rebuff them.

Then the doors to the theatre opened, and Meera was wheeled out.

His brood of bratlings instantly abandoned his bed to crowd around hers, warded off with various success by the surrounding nurses. Keller appeared afterwards, looking utterly exhausted but not with the despairing look of someone who'd just spent three hours trying to save a dead girl, or the carefully blank look of someone psyching themselves for interviews with the deceased relatives. Rodney felt a small pang of hope.

"Is she–?"

"She's fine." Keller rubbed her eyes, making them even redder than their already purplish-crimson shade. The shadows under them made her face look almost bruised. "I mean, she's not fine but she might be. I sewed up – I think – everything I had to and the stab missed vital organs but the blood loss is making things touch-and-go." She shrugged. "I give her fifty/fifty if we clone enough blood for her. Who _is_ she?"

Rodney was under the impression that wasn't the only question she had, but he let it past.

"She's just a kid," he said, feeling the enormity of it, and the truth. "Just a kid."

o.O.o

Sam wanted answers. Rodney was in the infirmary, with the medical staff banning her from speaking to him for the next twenty-four hours, and John was unconscious for some unknown and worrying reason. That left Exhibit C.

"Tell us what happened," she demanded from the creature looming over her. The cage was open but the handcuffs were back, as were the marines. More marines than before as well, and not armed with any stunners either. She wasn't about to take chances this time.

The Wraith didn't rise from its seated position on the bench. It managed to give the impression of being both extraordinarily annoyed and completely exhausted, and the half-hearted snarl it shot at her managed to convey both emotions. Sam got the impression it was too tired to be pissed at her.

"Why do you ask me? You will not believe me. Question Doctor McKay."

"You are in no position to make demands," Sam told him, although it was quite right, and she fully intended to question McKay about this afterwards. But for now she was prepared to suspend her automatic disbelief of what Wraith said. "Doctor McKay is currently unavailable. _You_ are not."

"I had noticed." Rodney could have taken lessons in sarcasm from it. "Your gratitude is overwhelming."

"We don't know that we have anything to be grateful for." Although it was hard to imagine it turning up here if it had nothing to do with Sheppard and Rodney's return. Whether that involvement was good or bad remained to be seen. "As far as we are aware you simply appeared in our gate room behind Dr McKay and Colonel Sheppard. For all we know you could have been pursuing them."

The look it graced her with should have husked her where she stood with its withering scorn. "Naturally, I would have been carrying a badly injured youngling while doing so."

Yes, there was that. "We don't know that you didn't _cause_ those injuries."

"And brought her here to parade my deed in front of you," it said acidly. "Truly a plan of genius."

"Okay, fine." Put like that it _did_ seem a little odd, which was of course why she wanted to get to the bottom of this. She wasn't about to believe it had suddenly grown a conscience, after all. "So what happened?"

Its eyelids drooped shut over those creepy reptilian eyes, and for a moment Sam thought it had gone to sleep in front of her. Then it spoke again.

"I have told you. You will believe Dr McKay. I have no wish to waste my time trying to persuade you on what happened." The Wraith opened one slitted eye as Sam opened her mouth. "I would advise you not to waste time trying to _persuade_ me to speak. I am not feeling very persuadable."

There was a dismissal if ever she heard one. But Sam wasn't about to be shrugged off in her own city. "Is that stubbornness or just tiredness?"

It chuckled softly, then closed the opened eye. "Perhaps a little of both."

Well. She knew better than to waste time on it; it wasn't as though this was _urgent_, she could wait until tomorrow. Impatiently perhaps, but without going completely mad. Unless...

"Is there something about this that might affect the safety of this city?"

It sighed quietly, appearing to lean deeper into the bench. "No... I made sure of that."

Somehow that wasn't as comforting as it might have been.

o.O.o

"Ronon."

He looked up from his silent and solitary _kata_, the wooden blade of the mock-sword posed in a killing thrust that would semi-decapitate anyone unfortunate enough to try and sneak up on him. Teyla was in the doorway, but she seemed to have lost some of her innate calm. He lowered the sword at once.

"What's wrong?"

"There is..." She trailed off, her voice dying to a whisper, then said. "I have heard... a few minutes ago... Colonel Sheppard and Dr McKay came through the Stargate."

There was a moment of utter silence, a pause in the spin of the universe, then time snapped back along with all the feelings it brought.

Joy.

Fear.

Rising hope.

Then the clamping down of all emotion he had learned in his time as a runner, because anything that clouded your mind could kill you. "They can't have..." _And I can't let myself be caught out by this. It's just a rumour. _

"I do not believe Major Lorne would lie to me. A friend of his was called to the gate room when the ring activated."

Ronon wanted to shout with anger at the despair this whole event had caused, let despair snuff out the treacherous hope that was blooming in his chest. But bell-clear tones of joy drowned it out. "They're _here_?"

"In the infirmary, but–"

It was as far as Teyla got before he started running.

No matter what else ever happened, he was good at running.

o.O.o

The night had passed very slowly; Sam had spent most of it either pestering the medical staff for information or making sure Ronon and Teyla – along with myriad others – didn't try to actually break-and-enter the infirmary, trying desperately all alone not to imitate them. Dawn came all too late for everyone concerned.

Ideally, when the sun finally rose and the morning shift let them in, she would have preferred to talk with their prodigal military and science leaders alone. Sam would have taken steps to ensure this was so, if Ronon hadn't made it perfectly clear that if he was _not_ allowed in to see his wayward team mates then the base and possible a few marines as well would need extensive repairs. Teyla was somewhat less volatile and demanding, but then she didn't need to be. Sam had seen that look before on Jack's face and knew when to accept a graceful defeat when she needed to.

Thinking about Jack hurt. It meant thinking about Daniel and Teal'c; it meant thinking about when _she_ had been part of a team, whose members would have as willingly died for her as she would have for them, or SGA-1 would for each other _now_. She had thought it would last forever, that only death could break them apart, but that was not so. Somehow they had become scattered, and she had been blown on solar winds to another _galaxy_. It echoed her fear for _this_ bright young team, who sooner or later would have to face the same thing.

She prayed it would be later.

Despite the early hour of their arrival (after dawn, but not very; the clocks set on New Lantian time said seven AM) McKay was up and awake, eating a hospital breakfast in the company of five ragged, filthy children, who were crowded around him as though he were a very irate Santa Claus. In the bed next-door was Colonel Sheppard, motionless and so pale he almost blended with the hospital scrubs someone had seen fit to put him and McKay in, with IV lines running from his arms and chest like the tentacles of a mythical monster. The only contrast was from the mop of dark hair and matching beard stubble, and the numerous blotches dappling his skin on brown and red. Even with the disguise from the bedclothes and scrubs he was painfully thin, his eyes sunken and his face gaunt.

McKay wasn't quite as skinny, although the enthusiasm with which he was attacking his breakfast suggested food had been in short supply for a while. He too sported stubble, although the mars on his skin were fresher, most of them covered in Elastoplasts or taped up, and there was a bandage around his head with a thickness near his temple. The sight of the covered wound reminded Sam of their other injured party, but when she looked around the only occupied bed was curtained off. She hoped that meant the girl was recovering, and not for the _other_ reason a bed might be secluded.

McKay caught her look and opened his mouth, but Ronon beat him to it.

"You look like crap."

The mouth closed, then opened again, this time with a little more annoyance. "Thank you for the observation, _Conan_."

"We are simply worried about what happened to you, Rodney," Teyla assured him, not without a sideways glare at her taller companion. Ronon just grinned at them both. "When the Wraith took you away..."

Sam decided to leave them to it. Her questions for McKay could wait, and she had a few extra that Keller could answer – without McKay's help. She found the doctor inside the curtained-off area, where Sam's heart was lifted slightly by seeing the injured girl, pale but breathing under the life-support. Keller glanced up and almost jumped to attention, making Sam almost smile.

"No, it's okay... I just wondered how she was doing."

The younger woman relaxed, but only minutely. "Fine. Well, mostly fine. She's probably going to recover, although she might have problems even afterwards. The, the whatever-it-was that stabbed her went too close to her heart."

Sam sighed quietly. But at least the girl was alive. "Any idea who she is?"

"The kids with Dr McKay called her Meera. I don't know if she has a second name." Keller looked uncomfortable, although whether that was down to how little she knew about her patient or because she was in the presence of the city's boss was unknown. "From what I gathered the little curly-haired boy is her brother. I think the others are just friends."

It begged the question of what those friends – and the girl come to that – were doing here in the first place, but there were more urgent questions on Sam's mind. "How are Doctor McKay and Colonel Sheppard?"

_That_ caused a little nervous nibbling of the lips, and an expression such as a rabbit might wear upon seeing an approaching fox. "They're, they... Rodney's got concussion. It's not bad, but we're keeping him in a few days just in case. He's also malnourished and a bit beat up, but it's nothing serious." Her mouth quirked slightly. "Despite what he says otherwise."

"And Colonel Sheppard?"

The mouth drooped down at the corners, acquiring deep groves. "Physically he's... malnourished, like McKay. No as badly tossed around, but he's got breaks... dozens of them, and compound fractures caused some time ago, including one to his skull. His right hand looks as though someone beat it with a hammer then set it – that's pretty much healed. We're putting him on vitamin supplements; we found mouth ulcers that suggest he hasn't been getting enough fruit or vegetables lately. And there are marks on his skin..." Keller swallowed dryly. "We think might be burns and cuts. And his, his back and... There are scars. Long, thin ones. We think he might have been beaten."

"Torture." Such a small word, but it made Keller flinch like the whips would never have made Sheppard. She knew him well enough for _that_.

"Yes," the doctor said softly. "Over an extended period. But not recently. And we checked for, for signs of... if the Wraith had..." Her hands clenched and unclenched before she managed to say almost calmly "We found no marks."

Which could mean that Sheppard had escaped being fed on, or that they had simply vanished over a period of days. Or healed by the Wraith itself, for whatever reason. "Did you sedate him?"

"No. That's what I was going to call you about..." Keller flipped through the notes on her clipboard, finally pulling out a sheet showing a human brain in rainbow colours. "We did a scan on him to see why he won't wake up and we found this..."

Sam looked over the results with the limited experience of someone who avoided hospitals like the plague. Eventually she gave up and said "What am I supposed to be seeing here?"

Keller took the paper gently from her and pointed to the front, picked out in brilliant red. "This is the frontal lobe and these," she pointed to either side, also crimson, "are the temporal lobes. Both are showing unusually high activity, which should _not_ be happening to someone in a coma." Seeing Sam's blank look, she sighed. "The frontal lobes control cognitive processes and long term memory. The temporal lobes control speech, memory, and hearing. This," she pointed to two bright convoluted shapes, "is the hippocampus. It's the primary memory source. We also detected _way_ above-average activity in the anterior cingulate cortex – the ACC. It's the part that controls rational thinking, reward anticipation, empathy, emotion... what the human mind needs to _decide_ things."

It all sounded horribly like something Sam didn't want to think about right now. "When you say _decide things_... do you mean mind control?"

Keller hesitated. "That depends if the activity is due to a conscious, outside source. But if Colonel Sheppard's memory is being affected as well..."

Sam caught on instantly, even if she didn't want to. "You think he might have been brainwashed."

"It's a definite possibility." Keller looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, it's just... we've never had to deal with this before. Normally I would say he'd been injected with something, but all our results came up negative. And there's no _reason_ for him to be asleep like this. It's as though he's just been... switched off."

Which was, of course, exactly where this had been leading. Someone who could control a mind could surely make it stop working. Sam felt her stomach go cold.

"Can you wake him?"

"Without knowing what's causing this, I wouldn't dare. It would be too risky to the Colonel."

So in other words they were stuck. "I think I need to have a talk with Rodney now."

Keller didn't object, although Sam hadn't expected her to. The doctor would surely be as curious to know what was going on as she was. "May I request being there when you question him? Any information about Colonel Sheppard's condition would be helpful."

"Of course."

They both turned to leave as one. The children had disappeared, probably with the help of a whole flock of nurses, and Ronon and Teyla had drifted from Rodney's bed to Sheppard's. Sheppard himself remained blissfully oblivious to their presence, Rodney himself having gotten up to sit with them. Sam considered sending the first two out of the room, then decided not to bother; in their position, with Jack, Teal'c, or Daniel lying unconscious, she wouldn't have left even with the help of a crowbar and a tub of grease. "Rodney. We need to ask you a few questions."

He looked resigned, and a little annoyed. Sam couldn't really blame him. He had to be as worried sick about Sheppard as everyone else. "What, _now_?"

Keller interrupted before Sam could reply. "You could know something that might help the Colonel. Please, Rodney."

Amazingly – or not – it worked. Rodney, looking somewhat mollified, went back to lie down in his bed again, drawing up the blankets like a protective shield while his team mates bar one sat down beside him. Ronon kept shooting glances back over his shoulder at his comatose leader, as though frightened Sheppard might fly away while he wasn't looking. Sam pulled up a spare chair and sat at the foot of the bed, Keller hovering nervously behind her.

"So," Rodney said with forced cheerfulness. "What do you want to hear about first?"

o.O.o

An hour later and Sam was almost as confused as she had been before.

"Rodney, wait." She held up a hand to interrupt the flow of detailed narrative describing his flight from the tower and the '_Gàst_' – whatever _that_ was. "You said the Wraith was kneeling by Sheppard in a trance, with one of its hands on his head."

"Uh, yeah."

"Did you ever have problems with Colonel Sheppard waking up again?"

"What?" Rodney seemed startled by the question. "No, not really. Well, there was once after that but he was just confused and when we got to the Stargate _yes_; that was when I got this." He touched the bandage around his head. "But otherwise it seemed the Wraith could put him to sleep as much as we needed."

Sam and Keller exchanged looks, before the former spoke. "Go on."

Rodney launched right back into his tale, before being interrupted yet again. "A children's story? A _Wraith's_ children's story?"

He looked uncomfortable. "That's what it said."

"Did you see any proof of that?"

"Well there _were_ all the soldiers chasing us and... uh..." Rodney grimaced. "When it was... killed... it definitely wasn't human. And it had _looked_ like a human up until then."

"The Wraith killed it?" Sam tried not to look as alarmed as she felt. The last thing they needed was an interspecies incident with the dead thing's relatives.

"Yeah. Crossbow bolt in the chest." He saw them all staring at him and said "_What_? It was trying to kill us!"

"The Wraith could have been lying," Ronon rumbled, saving Sam the trouble.

"He tried to _kill_ me, remember?"

"So it controlled Sheppard to do that. Put you off the scent."

Sam waved at him to be quiet and said "Carry on, Rodney."

Rodney did, right up to the end of the story and the flight through the 'gate. Sam leant back while she tried to process everything, feeling the beginnings of a headache. What a mess. "Rodney, can I just get one thing straight?"

"Uh, sure." He looked apprehensive.

"Did you ever, at any point, see the... _Gàst_ controlling Sheppard?"

"Well... not directly, but it–"

"But you saw the Wraith controlling him?"

"I _might_ have done, and it was only trying to make him sleep, anyway." He looked around at the expressions on his audience's faces and said "What? It was trying to _help_, I... think. I'm pretty sure."

"You're defending it?" Ronon's tone of voice held his exact opinion of that.

"No... Yes... look, it almost _died_. You know, in the blizzard? And it rescued Sheppard–"

"We don't know that he needed rescuing," Sam reminded him. "You said the clothes he was wearing were rich and well-made. That doesn't sound like something a prisoner would wear."

"He almost _killed_ me!"

"We don't know that the Wraith didn't set that up," Ronon growled.

"It didn't, I know..." Rodney trailed away and sighed. "Okay, I _don't_ know. But some of the things it said... and it took Meera through the 'gate... why would it bring us back here anyway?"

"Perhaps it is trying to foster trust for its own purposes," Teyla suggested.

"Or it's going to use Sheppard against us," Ronon said darkly. "Brainwash him then get him in here to control him where it needs him."

Sam said nothing, but either situation was all too likely. Rodney just lay with his mouth open, looking like a child whose puppy had been kicked. She tried to reassure him, but failed miserably. "Rodney, I'm sorry. But you have to look at the facts. We _know_ the Wraith can control Sheppard, we _know_ it has an, an _agenda_ here that's not exactly the same as ours–"

"And we know it can't be trusted," Ronon interjected. "It's a Wraith."

Sam refrained from agreeing out loud. Rodney looked upset enough as it was, goodness knew why. "We just need to... keep an open mind. Maybe talk to it as well. Find out _its_ side of the story." She saw Ronon fingering his blaster, but despite an instinctive disapproval for torture she said nothing. Sickening though it was, it might be the only way. "You understand?"

Rodney picked at the bedclothes, his voice subdued. "Yeah. I guess."

"Okay." She rose, along with Teyla and Ronon – Keller had disappeared long before to check on the little girl – and tried to smile. "It'll be okay, Rodney. Just... try to get some rest."

He smiled half-heartedly, and she mimicked the expression before leaving. Then she turned to the others.

"Ronon..."

"I know," the Satedan said, his eyes dark as he dropped his hand to his gun. "I'm coming."

o.O.o

When Jenny came back from her rounds – most of them involving double-and-triple-checking Colonel Sheppard's blood test results and doing a scan on his body chemistry –she found McKay lying alone on his bed, picking morosely at the remains of his breakfast without much enthusiasm. That in itself was unusual enough for her to stop and ask if everything was alright.

"They are for _me_," McKay said enigmatically, putting aside the tray and fiddling with his bedclothes. "I think I might have gotten someone else in trouble, though."

o.O.o

In retrospect he should probably have expected this. The thought did not, however, make staring down the barrel of an advanced energy gun any more pleasant, or any less worrisome.

Ka would have been a lot more worried if he'd had the energy for it. As it was he managed to convey a supremely disinterested air, despite the nagging thought that he might have made an error in coming back. But the terms of his agreement had stated that all of his work on the nanite virus would be done in Atlantis, and he was not about to go back on his word – even to humans. His word might be tarnished, battered, and capable of bending in impossible shapes when needed, but it wasn't going to be broken. One thing he had learnt through his unusually long life – even for a Wraith – was that a sense of honour was something that, unlike material possessions, had the potential to last from birth to death.

Of course, the Lanteans could hardly be expected to know this.

"I had nothing – and have nothing – to do with Colonel Sheppard's present condition," he told them, not really thinking he would be believed. He was not disappointed. "He is merely suffering from the shock of his sudden severance from the mind of the _Gàst_."

"Prove it." The Satedan looked almost happy, or at least as happy as Ka had ever seen him look. The sticky patch was that he _couldn't_ prove it, which was possibly the reason.

"When John Sheppard has recovered he will be able to tell you." _If_ Sheppard recovered, and _if_ he was ever well enough to – or inclined to – back up Ka's story.

The woman Carter folded her arms in a no-nonsense gesture. "And when will that be?"

"That depends on how well you treat him – and how long the _Gàst_ had him for."

"So in other words, you don't know."

Ka ignored the sarcasm, although the human was perfectly correct. He _didn't_ know. "Healing humans is not a speciality of mine."

Carter snorted at almost precisely the same moment Dex's upper lip curled up in a snarl a Wraith would have been proud of. Foolishness. The Satedan professed to hate his kind – Ka well knew a former Runner when he saw one, and the fate of Sateda was no secret – yet he was closer even than Sheppard to the mannerisms and thought processes of a true Wraith. Humans always forgot the most basic rule of hatred; it was a double-edged blade. All too often the face in the water when you looked down belonged to your enemy.

He knew the price of hatred all too well. He hoped – because Ronon Dex reminded him so of that, as Sheppard did of Quoh and Kyu – that the Satedan would realise the heavy toll he would have to pay before he paid it all. He was still young enough to heal. _Too_ young. Like Sheppard. Ka couldn't help but feel sorrow when he saw the Lanteans; children trying to fight an adult's war. Humans were so much like that – a species of younglings. They should fill their existences with _living_, not with war and death. Their lives were too short to waste.

"We had guessed that," Carter said dryly.

"As you say. I am not familiar with even normal human brain structure." Well, why should he be? "I would have no base to judge by. All I know is he will need constant tending, constant companionship, in order to be wholly healed."

"Colonel Sheppard is extremely well-liked here," she said neutrally. "He will receive the best care possible."

"With the link broken he should be more open to you. The _Gàst_ works through isolation from family and those close to the victim. The opposite will help his recovery." It was all he could give them, really. No-one had ever come back from being taken before this. It was possible there could be no real recovery at all.

"So with no... link... Sheppard should recover fully?" Carter's voice was careful, but otherwise expressionless. Ka tilted his head from his seated position and tried to keep the puzzled look off his face. No leader could be _that_ slow on the uptake.

"Yes," he answered anyway. With humans one never knew. While certainly capable of the surprising – he counted McKay's adequate brainpower and Sheppard's courage – there was a reason humans were food and Wraith were not. Those two had been spoiling him when it came to basic intelligence.

"Thank you," she said, surprising him. Not extraordinary, since no such phrase existed in _any_ Wraith language. "That was all we needed to know."

She turned to leave at that, although Dex lingered a little longer, perhaps waiting for a kill order. If so he was disappointed, although the smirk he shot back at Ka when he left held very little of that emotion; rather, it radiated smugness at near-atomic levels.

The Wraith noted this with a faint hint of unease. He couldn't help but feel that he might have slipped up at some point.

The problem was, he hadn't the slightest clue _where_.

o.O.o

Rodney's worry didn't distract him very long. It would, of course, be disheartening if the Wraith _did_ happen to meet an unfortunate end, but he wouldn't mourn terribly. The only real blow would be to his progress on the nanite coding, and a good injection of scientists would cure that. They could leave their little pet projects for a while; it wouldn't _kill_ them.

This was, perhaps, a little cold, but in fairness to Rodney he had plenty enough to worry about as it was – namely, Lt. Colonel John Sheppard. He ranked his team leader and probably only friend (annoying though he sometimes might be) above a Wraith any day. And Sheppard _still_ hadn't woken up.

It made him wonder if Carter might not have had a point about the Wraith after all.

At least he didn't have to worry alone. Teyla had soon returned from wherever Carter had taken her; she wouldn't say where their esteemed leader or Ronon had gotten to, and Rodney was wise enough to let it drop. Tactless he might be, but Teyla was projecting cold disapproval about the pair's unknown activities intensely enough for even _him_ to notice, and Rodney had enough on his plate already. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him.

They'd set up a watch-station by Sheppard's bed, observing him in shifts for any sign of waking. So far they hadn't seen so much as an eyelash flicker, but it was early days – hours. If it mattered.

If it did go into days it _would_ matter. But Rodney was trying out optimism for size. It was a new experience for him.

At around about lunchtime, the bratlings returned. Unsurprisingly they gravitated towards Meera, then once the nurses had shooed them away towards Teyla, who greeted them with a wistful happiness that made Rodney realise unexpectedly how much she must be missing her people, and _their_ children. The depth of pity he felt for her was a new experience as well, although he disguised it as well as he could.

It made him wonder why Teyla had no children of her own. Most of the Athosian women her age already had a brood of little brats running around and screaming and being annoying. But perhaps – Rodney felt a chill – she _had_ had children; it wasn't as though he'd ever asked. Maybe something had happened, maybe a culling when they'd run the wrong way, been scooped up in a dart and never seen again. It was horribly possible.

It didn't even have to be Wraith. The Athosians weren't – hadn't been – exactly advanced when it came to medical care. Maybe she'd given birth and raised children only to see them wiped out by a measles virus or the 'flu.

Rodney decided never to ask. Pity was a bad thing to share between people you worked with.

"When's Meera gonna wake up?" Dav asked anxiously. He'd been the hardest to chase away from his sister's bedside, and he hadn't stopped looking at the curtained off area. Rodney wisely chose to let Teyla answer.

"Meera needs to sleep for a little longer," the Athosian woman reassured him gently. "It will heal her."

Dav stuck his lower lip out thoughtfully. "How _much_ longer?"

"I do not know, Dav. But I do not think it will be a great deal."

That seemed to cheer him up, enough to ask another question anyway. "What's wrong with the offworlder?" he asked, pointing at Sheppard.

"He is resting as well," Teyla assured him, although not without a glance at Rodney that made it clear she sincerely _hoped_ he was.

"Is he going to get better?"

"We hope so," she said, with a strained truthfulness that only came through sincere worry. "We are doing everything we can."

"When's Ace going to come and see them?"

Teyla looked puzzled. Rodney decided to step in. "He's not."

"Why not?" piped up Zaiq, who was the quietest and therefore Rodney's favourite. Or had been.

"Because he's busy," Rodney snapped, hoping like hell that was true. If the Wraith wasn't busy now it wouldn't be ever again, and the virus would tick over a lot quicker with its help...

_Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that McKay._

For a moment Sheppard's mental voice was so clear Rodney actually jumped, looking over at the bed to see if the man had woken up and started reading his mind. Fortunately his spooked air was covered by Teyla asking "Who is Ace?"

Oh great. "It's their name for... uh, you know. Our mutual green friend." Good God, he made it sound like Kermit the frog. Or maybe Yoda. Now there were mental pictures he didn't need.

Rodney's brain was brought back from its fascinating if slightly disturbing tangent by Niack's voice this time. "He can't be busy _all the time_."

"Yes he can, and even if he wasn't he wouldn't want to see you anyway," Rodney retorted sharply, still stuck on Jedi Wraith. Or more likely Sith, considering. "You're too small to eat."

Niack scowled. The rest of the children started to sniffle. Teyla glared at him. Rodney sighed, defeated by the crying – he _hated_ crying children. "Okay, okay, sorry. But you should probably give up on the Wr– on Ace. He can't fix Meera anyway, and it's not like he can root around in Sheppard's head and... sort out..."

Rodney stared off into space for a long while, his mouth slightly open, Teyla looking at him in bewildered concern. "Rodney? Is there something wrong?"

"No..." Amazingly enough, there wasn't. Amazingly enough, there was something _right_. "Teyla, you have to get Sam now, understand? I have an idea. A _real_ idea. One that might actually _work_...I can't believe I didn't think of this before..."

She looked as bemused as ever, but rose anyway "Is this something to do with Colonel Sheppard?"

"Oh yeah." Rodney felt himself start to grin. "This has _everything_ to do with Colonel Sheppard."

o.O.o

At that precise moment Sam was leaning forward on her elbows in her office. Before her were Keller, Major Lorne – in place of his comatose superior – and Ronon, who had asked to be included because he had a good idea of what the outcome of the meeting was going to be.

As it turned out, he was correct.

"Okay," she said, trying not to think of what they were throwing away. But Sheppard's life and health were worth more than viruses, and this was the only way to be sure they were protecting both. There was one species they _knew_ was telepathic, one member of that species they _knew_ could control human minds, one man they _knew_ for sure it could control. For everyone's sakes, that had to be rectified. "Are we all agreed?"

Three heads nodded. There had never really been any doubt.

"Okay," she said again, shoring up her decision. "It _is_ agreed. Ronon has requested to carry out... what needs to be done. As long as there are no objections..."

There weren't.

"Then it's settled. We have to kill the Wraith."


End file.
